


King's Envoi

by minhyukwithagun (deadlylampshades)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Blood and Violence, Choking, Implied/Referenced Underage Relationship(s), It All Works Out No Worries, M/M, Pining, Power Dynamics, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22084135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlylampshades/pseuds/minhyukwithagun
Summary: "They took everything from you, Your Highness.”“Not everything,” Wonwoo says, looking straight at Jun. Some was given away willingly, after all.
Relationships: Jeon Wonwoo/Wen Jun Hui | Jun, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 306
Collections: Haggly Holidays!





	1. Draw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [figure8](https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/gifts).



> warnings: choking both sexual and non-sexual, mild violence, discussion of parental death, (past) underage relationship 
> 
> main pairing is tagged, the others i consider to be revealed within the fic but if you're desperate to know, i'll link them in the notes. here is the [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3utAPXqcDIOPQxpTToSpt4?si=Yf_l9JFpTqa8PTKT5lPeqw)! the first track was instrumental in writing this fic, and by not a coincidence at all, one of len's favourite bands!
> 
> this fic is for len. you are, quite literally, one of my favourite authors in the world. i truly hope this makes you a fraction as happy as your fics make me.

It is said that the worth of a great man can be valued by how they react in times of crisis. Some leaders shed a tear, some are filled with a renewed resolve to surge forth, some merely nod and accept the will of the universe.

Wonwoo is not a great man. This is because, among other reasons, when his officer reads the ill-fated letter out loud, Wonwoo instead stands up and punches a hole in the nearest wall.

Blood gushes out of his hand. It’s hardly surprising and Wonwoo stares at it with a sort of numb resignation. In a few seconds, he'll miss this moment, as soon as the pain hits. And then it does and he grits his teeth together, trying not to swear in front of the room full of his officials and instead turns around, plasters a fake smile.

"Dismissed," he says.

It's a prolonged moment before anyone does anything.

"Your Highness," Jihoon starts to say, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

Wonwoo cuts him off. "Dismissed."

The only one who dares disobey his order is Jeonghan, his lips pursed as if already deciding how to chastise him. He's kind enough to pull out a handkerchief at least, tosses it to Wonwoo. He catches it and drapes it across the sticky mess of his knuckles. Allows himself to wince openly now.

"Fuck me, that was a bad idea," Wonwoo mumbles, gripping the handkerchief tightly.

"Does that mean there was a moment within your addled mind you thought that punching a wall in front of a hall of officers was a _good_ idea?" Jeonghan replies.

"I don't like surprises," is Wonwoo's excuse, delivered surly, like he's a child.

"And I don't like bothering our servants to mop their King's blood off the wall, but I suppose I'll have to make do, won't I? Like I’ve done for years prior and will continue to do so until you’ve dismantled even the foundation beams of the castle." Jeonghan knows the exact way in which Wonwoo will sulk, and doesn’t even pretend to have the time for it. He’s not entirely heartless, however, and leaves his hand on Wonwoo’s back. “Do I need to call the physician?”

“No, no, not at all,” Wonwoo says quickly. The castle physician has far better things to do with his time than wrap bandages around his concerningly impulsive monarch. “Look, it’s fine, let’s just get back to the matter at hand.”

Their eyes drift towards the letter in the center of the now-vacated table. It’s face-up, the words written in a most elegant calligraphy on the finest parchments. It seems to taunt them to read it.

“It’s nothing to be alarmed about,” Jeonghan says after a pause, picking up the letter. “My agents tell me that Minghao has been visiting many kingdoms recently. As his father ages, he wants to take a more proactive role in diplomacy. He was last seen in the West, in Junmyeon’s domain. Makes logical sense to visit us next. Seems he’s saved the best for last.”

Wonwoo grimaces. “I can’t remember the last time I spoke to him.”

“Oh, I do. I believe it was General Park’s funeral. If I recall correctly, he spoke to you when you had a mouthful of rice crackers and sprayed it all over him.”

Wonwoo had been starving. The journey to General Park’s memorial should have taken two days but he would never make it at that pace, and was forced to ride through the night on his own horse, with only Jeonghan and Seungcheol for accompaniment. He arrived sweating, his blazer spattered with dirt and sand, but was at least present for the Widow Park’s speech. If he had known what a slight it would be to show up late, he would have not come at all. But then again, he should be used to this now, for every other noble craving yet another reason to sneer down upon him.

Minghao was just the cherry on top of that day, seeming to find Wonwoo at the worst possible moment, surprising him with a pat on the back, sending rice cracker crumbs flying. Even if Minghao took it with good-natured grace, people noticed. Wonwoo privately thought that if there was room in General Park’s coffin, perhaps he should go in with him. 

“It really is quite incredible how he manages to reduce you to an embarrassing child,” Jeonghan says, scanning over the letter again. “But your own social ineptitude is not a valid reason to decline this invitation. Can I send our acceptance?”

“Now, hold on,” Wonwoo says. His knuckles have stopped bleeding, but the throbbing pain continues. “He’s given us no details. All he says is he wants to visit! How many people is he planning on bringing, what if we don’t have space to host them all?”

He peers over Jeonghan’s shoulder at the letter. Minghao’s seal is present, a vivid shade of forest green wax. Wonwoo wrinkles his nose.

“Wonwoo,” Jeonghan says, his voice thick with exhaustion, “Put aside your prior reservations. This is a good opportunity to speak to him. He’s a valuable ally.” He pauses. “And it might be good to have friends your own age _and_ social standing.”

Asking for friendship from Minghao might be far beyond what Wonwoo would be capable of. Certainly, he would love to have more companions, but he can’t knowingly befriend the person who has Jun. He’d never be able to look at them, and not think of him. Still, he can’t deny Jeonghan’s rationale.

He nods. “Fine. Tell him we’ll await his arrival.”

🏹

“He’s so unnecessary,” Wonwoo says, and his voice is so thick with jealousy he might choke on it. It’s a good thing no one can hear him over the sound of thundering hoofbeats. The Camellia Court tradition of using six horses for each carriage means the three carriages driving past sound like an earthquake is occuring just outside the castle gates. The horses hooves thunder, seeming to do a victory lap, but Wonwoo knows if he enquires about this, Minghao will just wave his hand and claim that the carriage driver lost his direction.

“They really are incredible, aren’t they?” Seungcheol says next to him.

“Oh, don’t encourage them— we have carriages too,” Wonwoo frowns. Fancy ones, with gilded doors and irises hand painted on the side. Granted, they aren’t used very often, but they’re still there. They’re still interesting, even if they don’t look like they’ve come from the heavens themselves. There was a beautiful carriage reserved for the use of transporting the royal family to the nearby cities. It’s not around anymore.

“It’s not about the carriages, it’s about the—” and Seungcheol cuts himself off now. He clears his throat. “Your Highness, we should wait in the receiving room for them. They’ll be here shortly.”

‘Shortly’ is certainly a polite way of phrasing it. Minghao and his entourage take their time in arriving. In the meantime, Wonwoo sits on his throne, boredly running through the capitals with Jeonghan, a game they’ve played since children. It’s still as dull as it was back then.

“He’s making me wait,” Wonwoo says. He pulls on his collar.

“It’s been a long journey. Let the man take a piss before you start accusing him of insidious political ploys,” Jeonghan replies. He seems unfazed by Minghao’s tardiness as he sits at a table and drafts out a letter.

“He was already on our property, it does _not_ take that long to park a few horses. I’m not waiting a minute more, I’m going. I haven’t had a bite to eat since this morning,” Wonwoo announces.

Jeonghan doesn’t look up. “Fine. Go.”

He hadn’t expected to be allowed to. “I will, you know.”

“And I wouldn’t dream of stopping you, my Highness,” Jeonghan says.

“Fine. Tell Minghao if he wants to see me, he shouldn’t keep me waiting around.”

“I’ll be sure to.” And now Jeonghan gazes up, as if daring him. They stare at each other for so long, both awaiting to see the other’s reaction, that the action of the doors swinging open into the receiving hall is the only force capable of breaking this. 

It’s sad, really, that the second Minghao’s party walks inside, Wonwoo scans the heads of all present, searching, and breathes a sign of relief and disappointment when he doesn’t find it.

Wonwoo rises. “Crown Prince Xu.”

“King Jeon,” Minghao replies, and bows low. “It’s been too long.”

“It just makes these moments all the more precious.” He gestures to Jeonghan. “I take it you remember my advisor, J—”

“Jeonghan!” Minghao says, grandly shaking his hand. “Oh, you’re looking good as ever.”

“The same for you, Your Highness,” Jeonghan replies. It gets annoying, sometimes, the way that everyone fawns over Jeonghan and the smiles that he dishes out. It’s such a contrast to the way their gazes drop to the floor at the mention of Wonwoo’s name. He can't begrudge everyone for being charmed by Jeonghan, after all, he still finds himself bewitched and he's been next to him for years.

"To what do I owe the joy of your visit?" Wonwoo asks in a desperate attempt to bring the conversation to root.

Minghao doesn't take the offer of the seat, so Wonwoo doesn't sit either. He's taller than him. There's that at least.

"You should ask my mother that. She'll tell you I'm just being a hot-blooded youth who wants to leave the nest," Minghao laughs. "Perhaps she's onto something. I wanted to be here plainly for the reason that I want to. It's been so long since I've visited."

Minghao, tactful as ever, does not bring up the last time he visited. There's a pause and Wonwoo is almost tempted to ask, but hesitates after a glance from Jeonghan, as if he can read his mind and desperately is trying to stop him.

"Besides," Minghao says, "I want you to meet my consort."

"Your," Wonwoo repeats, his mouth dry, "Consort?"

Minghao is a year younger than Wonwoo. There is no reason for him to already be preparing for his wedding, not when Wonwoo’s already forgotten what it means to court.

"Fianceé, really, but nothing is official yet." Minghao swipes the side of his nose like it's a secret.

"I look forward to meeting them," Wonwoo says, scanning the room. It's Minghao and about five of his cohort. None of them look the part of spouse to the future King, but Wonwoo sticks to diplomacy. “I had no idea you were seeing someone.”

“That’s only because you never send me any letters.” Minghao smiles, wide and big. It’s disquieting.

“Hopefully we can remedy the distance between us during your time here,” Wonwoo says. “And you can introduce me to your consort.”

“Jieqiong is settling in at the moment,” Minghao waves his hand. “She’s rather specific about appearances and wouldn’t come before a King of your standing till she’s sufficiently rested. You’ll have to excuse her absence, please, and know that she’ll personally greet you later.”

Jieqiong is an interesting name, not just for the way it sounds, or for the way Minghao’s eyes curve up in happiness when he says—but for its familiarity in Wonwoo’s mind. You don’t forget something quite that distinctive.

“That’s hardly a problem at all,” Jeonghan says, stepping in over Wonwoo’s second long pause. It’s not necessary in the slightest, but Jeonghan always treats Wonwoo like he’s some delicate flower whenever he’s near Minghao. “Would you care for a drink this evening? We can take it in the King’s drawing room. An intimate affair between friends.”

🏹

“Do you know a Jieqiong?”

Seungcheol, in a rare moment of distraction, looks away from the window and blinks several times. “Sorry, Your Highness, come again?”

“Jieqiong,” Wonwoo says, slowly this time. “Have you heard of her?”

“Can’t say I have,” Seungcheol replies. “Should I?"

His thick brows are raised in concern and Wonwoo feels a stab of sympathy. Seungcheol, after all, is a little old to be the King's personal guard, a position that's always been as political as it is military. And that's not a jibe meant at Seungcheol at all, no, he had his time as a youth in that position with Wonwoo's father. It's just that at his age, Seungcheol should be a general of some peaceful district, well-off and placid. _Not_ subject to the whims of a king a good two decades younger than him. But life isn't quite fair, and Seungcheol offered to take over the duties. Wonwoo was in no position to refuse.

And truthfully, Seungcheol has been essential. He has _experience_. And history — he was a knight for his father, but his best friend too. He often cites supporting his King’s son would have been his final wish to him. It was not easy taming a King out of the wild teenager he was, but Seungcheol remained committed in his duty, and for that, Wonwoo will always be grateful.

But all his contacts are just a generation out of date, and no, Seungcheol wouldn't know an upstart twenty-something noblewoman from a different court.

"Don't bother," Wonwoo says with a soft smile. He stands alongside him, peers through the window at some of the stable hands attempting to wrestle control of one of Minghao's horses. Something coils itself in his chest at the sight. "Have you ever ridden one?"

"Can't say I have," he shakes his head. "Must be something amazing, I think, these horses are the fastest in the land."

When Wonwoo was younger, he was fascinated by them. Almost entirely pitch black, the horses of Camellia Court are envied across the land. Bred strong and exclusively, Wonwoo always wanted one. And then, at seventeen, suddenly he didn’t want them anymore at all.

"Doesn't that sound fantastic?" Wonwoo says, despite himself. He forces himself to turn away. "Have you seen their travelling party?"

Seungcheol flashes a sympathetic smile. "Your Highness seems to be catching me out today. I can't say I have."

Wonwoo rapidly waves his arms out. "No, no that's not the case in the slightest! I wasn't trying to reprimand you, I was just wondering…"

And then trails off.

"If Junhui is here?" Seungcheol completes.

"Yes," Wonwoo says, and thinks he does a good job pretending he's unaffected.

"I wouldn't know. You might have to ask Minghao." For a moment it seems like Seungcheol might something else—but he just claps his hand on Wonwoo's shoulder. "We've got good wine being served tonight. I'm looking forward to it."

🏹

If every single one of Wonwoo's senses were compromised—his tongue cut off, his eyes blinded, his ears blocked, his nose bludgeoned, and then left to hang suspended in air—even then he thinks he'd be able to sense Junhui. It's beyond knowing the sound of his footsteps because shoes change and it's beyond knowing the touch of his skin because that changes too. It's that in his heart, Wonwoo can feel Junhui's presence like it belongs there inside of him.

When he walks into the drawing room, his eyes skip over everything else. He doesn't care to see Minghao reclining with an unseemly beautiful woman at his side, nor Jeonghan pouring a glass of wine for an equally unseemly beautiful man. He doesn't see the sodalite drapes of his family or the velvet plush of the chairs he's sitting in—all he sees is Junhui.

"Your Highness! Thank you for joining us," Jeonghan says. He's been a firm believer in the term 'fashionably late' and intentionally gave Wonwoo the incorrect time. Wonwoo can't even be upset; it's his fault, he knows Jeonghan does this.

"Oh King Jeon, your hospitality is always of the highest class," Minghao replies, his voice a little louder than usual. There's the slightest flush on his cheeks. Wonwoo would wonder precisely how long Minghao had been drinking, if he hadn't been so absolutely distracted by the man next to him.

The years have been so kind to Junhui. He looks as beautiful as the day he left, his hair still as a golden as the sun. It's strange how it's been six summers since Wonwoo has last seen him, and it seems like he's carried all of those with him in his smile.

"Junhui," Wonwoo exhales out before he can stop himself, before he realizes how bad this looks, before he thinks better. The impulsive king doesn’t change, not really.

"You've grown taller," is Junhui's reply. Just as quick, just as thoughtless, just as honest. There's a strange look on his eye.

It's the silence that follows that makes Wonwoo aware of just what he's done. He scans the room, and thankfully, Minghao seems amused rather than offended. Now would be the perfect time to let out a witty quip, dispel the tension in the air but Wonwoo's tongue is thick in his mouth.

"Well, welcome back Jun," Minghao says, sipping from his glass. "Hope you didn't miss the King Jeon too much."

Junhui's eyes instantly fall in front of him, and he stares resolutely at the floor. It wasn't a reprimand but Junhui seems to act like it's one.

"My apologies," Wonwoo says, unsure of what exactly he's apologizing for. He sits in his throne, accepts the overfull wine glass Jeonghan gives him and when he drinks, he tries not to seem too desperate.

"Have you ever met Zhengting?" Jeonghan asks, gesturing to the impossibly beautiful and impossibly thin man next to him. Wonwoo has seen sculptures that resemble men more than he does.

"I have not had the pleasure of encountering His Highness before," Zhengting replies, and he bows low but doesn't bother to put down the wine glass. "If I could describe myself in an unconventional way, think of me as the Crown Prince Xu's Jeonghan. Just, naturally, a little better."

For all of Wonwoo's mistakes, at least he doesn't outright spit out his drink at this remark. It takes him a good few seconds to realize that Zhengting is trying to explain that he’s Minghao's advisor, not that he regularly fucks him. Most likely.

Certainly, even if that was the case, it's simply poor etiquette to say something like that in front of his betrothed. Wonwoo finally sets his eyes on the woman called Jieqiong, the one with raven hair to her back, with cherry red lips and a careful smile.

"Oh," Wonwoo says, eyes widening. "You're Kyu—"

"Jieqiong? Yes, absolutely," she replies. Her voice is as delicate as glass. "Don't I feel flattered you remember me."

Wonwoo fixes his gaze on Minghao, attempting to figure out if this is some elaborate ruse. But Minghao seems distracted. He leans in and whispers something in Junhui's ear. Junhui does not respond. The woman he _knows_ is Kyulkyung merely smiles.

Jeonghan's gaze switches from her to Wonwoo rapidly, attempting to find the connection he missed but Wonwoo is hesitant to say anything. He's already made himself vulnerable upon walking in, he's not about to do it again with false accusations.

"I hope you're enjoying your time here again," Wonwoo says.

Kyulkyung sweeps a strand of dark hair out of her face, settles in comfortably into Minghao's embrace. "I will soon, surely."

🏹

“Zhengting _exhausts_ me,” Jeonghan wails, leaning against the post of Wonwoo’s bed for support. “I had expected to be overworked, I usually am whenever we have guests, but his presence here is not one I expected nor wanted!”

Within the walls of the King’s private bedchambers, Jeonghan is a different person. Stripped bare, sometimes literally, always figuratively. Many years ago, Wonwoo had told his advisor that when he’s here, he should feel free, that there’s no societal bindings that tie him here. It took time, but now the change is obvious that whenever Jeonghan enters the privacy of these chambers, he relaxes himself in a way he can’t elsewhere. Wonwoo’s grateful for that. He doesn’t have many friends, and the few that he does, he’d like them to be honest with themselves when they’re alone.

“I didn’t notice him too much,” Wonwoo says, absent-mindedly untying his boots.

“How did you not? He’s always been like this. Like an annoying gnat that just exists to vex me in particular,” Jeonghan waves his arms around wildly. “If he’s not trying to seduce Joshua in the kitchens, he’s making remarks about our military training regimes or snidely commenting that I’ve gained weight since the last time I’ve seen him.”

Wonwoo cocks his head to the side. “I assumed you were friends.”

He scoffs. “Well, obviously, it should _seem_ like that. It’s not like we’d ever actively antagonize each other. We aren’t Kings, after all, we have to maintain civility.” He sighs and sits on the bed next to Wonwoo. “I just think this visit is going to be tiring, but at least they’ll be gone by Sunday.”

That’s less than a week away. When the time comes, Minghao will load up all the carriages, and take himself, Kyulkyung and Junhui with him, back to his side of the world, and Wonwoo might never see them for another six years.

“You seem distracted, my Lord.”

The honorifics remain. If ever Jeonghan called him his first name in public, he’d have to pitch up his own flogging post.

“Did you not see him?” Wonwoo says, turning to face Jeonghan. “Junhui was there.”

“Ah,” Jeonghan says as he crosses his fingers together. “Yes, I did assume you’d be a bit preoccupied by that.” Careful as always, Jeonghan continues. “He looks well.”

He had seemed more toned. There was an arch to his posture that Wonwoo could not recall having been there before. His face, flushed with shock, was as handsome as always, his eyes sparkly, his hair the colour of sunlight.

“Do you think so?” Wonwoo asks.

“I didn’t really know him,” Jeonghan says, with more honesty that Wonwoo would have thought. “Remember that when he left, I had just finished up my schooling. By the time I became your advisor, Seungcheol was your personal guard. I met him a few times, but we had little common interests. I never needed to talk to him.”

And that sticks with Wonwoo, because it seems unbelievable that someone could know Junhui and not be endlessly enraptured by him. The only reason why people like Joshua do not speak of Junhui is because they were unfortunate enough not to know him. The idea that Jeonghan could exist in the upper echelons of this kingdom and _choose_ not to talk to Junhui ornot find any joy in his presence seems ridiculous.

“It’s the first time I’ve seen him in six years,” Wonwoo says. The words seem strange when said out loud. He stares down at his hands. “I don’t think I’d realized how long that was until now.”

“Minghao’s court has treated him well.” There’s a hand that caresses his back. “Are you okay, my Lord?”

It’s a question with a perplexing answer, because yes—objectively he is okay. He hasn’t degraded into a fit of tears nor has he shoved his knuckles into any walls. In fact, he seems almost disappointed with how anticlimactic their reunion has become. In his fantasies, of which he had as many, the reunion was always memorable, it’s always like the sky splits. Reality was not as fanciful. It was just a single glance across the room and a simple exchange of facts. Junhui said he looked taller. There’s a sudden sadness that grips at Wonwoo’s heart as he chokes on the familiarity.

“My Lord, you mustn’t blame yourself,” Jeonghan says, rubbing soothing circles. His choice of words are meaningless, meant to soothe, but all they do is inflict further pain.

Wonwoo’s gaze switches to Jeonghan. “Were you there? For the tournament?” His tone isn’t accusatory.

“I’ve certainly heard so much about it over the years—”

“But were you present? I’ve no intention of punishing you if you weren’t there. I’m merely curious.”

Jeonghan’s ministrations halt. “No.” He pauses. “I wasn’t there. I had too many other things to do that day. My final exams were coming up and I hardly cared about a silly little archery competition.”

Wonwoo nods. “Well then, you’ll have to trust me when I say I am entirely to blame.”

A frown crosses Jeonghan’s face and he sits closer, their legs touching. “My Lord, it’s been years. You can’t still be upset over this.”

Jeonghan, for all his quick-witted nature and his well-versed diplomacy, always struggles to understand Wonwoo’s inner self. And perhaps that’s for the best, because if he did, he may quit the next morning.

“I must say, you seemed more interested by Jieqiong’s arrival. Do you know her?” Jeonghan’s curiosity is relentless.

Exhaustion weighs down on Wonwoo’s shoulders. All he wants is to change out of these heavy robes and fall back into sleep. Maybe when he wakes up he’ll be seventeen again and can try to be a better human being. And even if that doesn’t happen, he could at least pretend Junhui isn’t here.

“Can we not do this now, Jeonghan?” Wonwoo asks. If Jeonghan deems this information too important to wait, Wonwoo will put aside his reservations. But Jeonghan merely smiles sadly.

“Of course, my Lord. You’ve had a busy day. I’ll instruct the guards not to bother you.”

“Thank you for your understanding.”

Jeonghan leans closer, his breath warm against his ear. “Would you care for me to alleviate some of your ills, my Lord?” A hand rises up his thigh, bold and assured. Familiar touch is always soothing, but Wonwoo can’t find the will in himself to be with him now.

Wonwoo clasps his own hand over Jeonghan’s. “Not tonight, Jeonghan.”

If he’s shocked, he hides it well. “Very well, my Lord,” he says. He kisses the skin underneath Wonwoo’s ear before he stands up and straightens himself out. “I hope you sleep well. Tomorrow will be better, I’m certain. And remember: they’re only here until the end of the week. And then things can go back to how they used to be.”

Indeed, things can. Back to a castle with no war horses in the stable, no forest green robes in the sunlight, and no Junhui in the drawing room. The prospect leaves Wonwoo feeling empty.

🏹

The sensation of familiarity is one that crept inside Wonwoo's mind from the first time he read Jieqiong's name. He voiced this to Jeonghan after the first night they arrived, who considered for a moment.

"Isn't that the name of the banshee?" Jeonghan had replied. And yes, of the many legends that the Camellia Court has bestowed upon the rest of the world, there is a particularly blood-soaked one about a woman gone so mad and twisted with grief that her screams became murderous, and they called her banshee. But before that, they called her Jieqiong.

"How unfortunate if that is her name," Jeonghan says, laughing to himself. "If I were her, I would've changed it a long time ago."

And certainly this seems a reasonable enough explanation, and would account for Wonwoo's difficulty remembering: it's not like he has time to look over children's books anymore. But still, he can't help but feel there's something overwhelmingly familiar about the name that has nothing to do with mystical creatures.

It's when he sees her outside his quarters, politely requesting entry, that he realizes he was right. Perhaps the reason the woman Jieqiong did not change her name is because she already had done so, earlier, when she left his court.

Jieqiong is a doll of a woman, but it's clear that this appearance is carefully cultivated, contoured cheekbones as sharp her eyeliner. Her hair is tucked into a severe bun, a single lock of her fringe frames her angular face. She surveys the room with her eyes sharp and when she fixes her gaze upon Wonwoo, her cherry-red lips crack into a smile.

"Cousin," she says, and embraces him.

"The last time I saw you, you were nine years old, had your hair in pigtails and you exclusively went by Kyulkyung," Wonwoo says. She smells like orchids. "I'm desperately curious for you to fill the gaps."

"Surely we should get our formalities out of the way first, cousin? Or have we forgotten ourselves," Jieqiong replies with a pout. “Aren’t you going to pour me a drink?”

Wonwoo feels incredibly underdressed in his sleeping robes. Silk doesn’t excuse how loose-fitting they are, the creases running up and down the sides of his sleeves. He almost wants to ask her to close her eyes for a few moment while he changes, but that would be even more ridiculous.

“Would you prefer to have this conversation in the drawing room? It’s much more equipped.” In the time he could dispatch a quick message to Jeonghan. Or put on a coat, at the very least.

“You expect me to believe you _don’t_ keep a bottle of something harsh and bitter hidden in your chambers?” Jieqiong’s gaze doesn’t falter. “Come now, Wonwoo.”

His lips form a line. She’s right, of course. He’s got a bottle of some ridiculously old whiskey in the cabinet next to where she stands. It was a gift from a visiting dignitary and Wonwoo had a glass of it precisely once, after which he slept for twelve hours. Seungcheol roused him from his slumber with coffee and a knowing smile. All Wonwoo remembered of the night was the lingering headache in the morning. His eyes unintentionally move over to that cabinet now, and Jieqiong misses nothing.

Manicured nails unhook the latch and she gives the sweetest smile as she holds out the bottle. “Get us a glass, would you?”

For someone who looks so fragile, she certainly holds her liquor back with remarkable strength. There’s a small table and two chairs, and Jieqiong occupies them both: one for herself, and the other for her thick coat. Wonwoo watches her from where he sits on his bed, almost grateful for the distance. He’s been trying to wrap his head around seeing her as an adult, and it’s incredibly difficult. She’s so … _different_. From her name, to the shape of her brows, to the way she sits in that chair, like she controls dominion over wherever she is. None of this is like the shy child she used to be when she was Kyulkyung, and perhaps for the main reason that Kyulkyung was never truly royalty.

“I’m sorry to hear about your parents,” she says as she sips. “Six years now, isn’t it?”

“Recently passed seven,” Wonwoo says, feeling that strange emptiness inside his chest again. “I didn’t see you at the memorial,” he adds. “Any of them.”

He stands to be corrected. They were all so well-attended, after all. Such is what happens when such beloved members of the royal family are cruelly struck down before their time. But Wonwoo also thinks he’d remember if she were there. She always did stand out—she looked nothing like the rest of his family.

“I wasn’t anywhere near your Court,” she says, quieter. “I would have come if I could. I know what it’s like to lose family, cousin.”

Of course she does, and Wonwoo would be foolish to forget that. Such is fate when she’s a relation by adoption and not by blood. She twirls a strand of her hair. “It gets easier. With time. But you know that by now, I’m certain. It doesn’t get _easy_ , but you’re able to cope with it better. You have to make your own path, after all.”

“And that’s clearly what you’ve done,” he says, rather keen to divert the topic. “Jieqiong is an interesting name.”

She scowls at this. “It _is_ my name. It’s not something I came up with. They called me Kyulkyung in your court as a sign of acceptance.”

She was standing under orange trees the first time he saw her, in a dress the colour of pansies and an expression of fear in her face. His aunt had pointed towards her and explained that her parents had passed away, so she’d be living in the Cedarwood Grounds with them now. Wonwoo remembers thinking about telling her she could eat an orange if she wanted to, but decided against it. It wasn’t like he could reach the branch anyway.

“I left your court a long time ago, and decided to revert back to my birth name,” Jieqiong concludes.

“And was that because you were worried about being associated with our court when the previous reigning monarchs were dead and suddenly I was the King?” Wonwoo says, unable to stop himself.

He watched his castle empty out from his own throne room since he was seventeen. Excuses were made, business fabricated in faraway lands, and Wonwoo could do nothing but let them leave. He could lock the gates, sure, but that doesn’t change the reality that his own citizens felt it was in their best interest to be unassociated with the new Jeon monarch. 

“No,” Jieqiong replies cooly. “I left before any of that happened.”

Wonwoo cringes inwardly.

“Be careful not to jump to any conclusions, cousin, or you might just make a friend an enemy. I have a great deal of respect for you and your entire family, and I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I’d betray the kindness they showed me many years ago just to save face.”

 _Impulsive_. Wonwoo can almost hear it in Jeonghan’s chiding tone of voice. If it was his father, he’d whack him on the side of his head but Jeonghan doesn’t dare lay a hand on the King. It’s still the same problem he’s had since he was a teenager, that he gets too reckless too fast, escalates a situation before it needs to be. It’s fine when he’s surrounded by his advisors and his generals who’ll talk him back, but when he’s alone, what stops him?

“I’m sorry,” he says, quickly. He avoids Jieqiong’s gaze.

“Indeed, part of the reason I’ve returned with Minghao is that I _want_ to get back in touch with this part of my heritage. While, yes, my parents are entangled with his Court more than yours, ultimately it was your aunt and uncle who took me in after my parents died, and raised me at the Cedarwood Grounds. I will never be able to repay that debt.”

She says ‘Minghao’ so casually, so familiar. “Congratulations on your engagement,” Wonwoo says. He raises his glass, and she replicates the gesture. They drink at the same time. The whiskey burns his throat.

“Thank you very much,” she replies. “It’s not quite official yet, though. In fact, you’re one of the first people to know.”

“I can’t imagine why I’ve earned that honour,” Wonwoo says, perhaps a little too bluntly.

Jieqiong sets her glass down, brushes the hair from her face. She leans forward, smiles broadly. If Wonwoo didn’t know any better, he’d think she’d be about to ask him a favour.

“Cousin, I’ve been away from home for a long time.”

“You’ve never lived here,” Wonwoo corrects. She’s lived at the Cedarwood Grounds, his familial birthing and resting place. After all, it was her adopted parents—Wonwoo’s aunt and uncle—who were the caretakers of the estate. While she visited the castle several times, she never _lived_ here.

Jieqiong flushes. “I’m aware. But that proves my point. I’ve been away from home for a long time. _My_ home.” She pauses, and her voice is calculated to take on a dreamy tone. “I long to see the forest again, to see the orange trees, to see those steps of the amphitheatre I used to run up and down as a child. I want to go back, Wonwoo.”

It’s the first time she’s used his name and Wonwoo feels something uncomfortable about this casual display. Jieqiong has no real _right_ to use such a casual address—and yet, Wonwoo doesn’t rebuke her. He just listens in silence, his hand clenched around the glass.

“And more than that, I want to take my beloved with me. I want to show him the place that made me the woman I am, the woman he’s fallen in love with.” There’s so many rings on her fingers, it’s hard to tell which is a result of her engagement, if any. “Wonwoo, I want to get engaged at the Grounds.”

“ _No_ ,” he says instantly. It’s not a question that needs to be thought about. “No, Kyulk—’ He corrects himself. ‘Jieqiong. No. You’re not part of this court anymore, you said that with your own mouth. And even if you were, did you really think I’d just let you get engaged in my family’s royal birthground?”

“Wonwoo, _please_ ,” Jieqiong leans at the edge of her seat. “Did you really think Minghao travelled all this way just to sit in your hall and unleash Zhengting on your single men? No. He’s here to ask you to formally to host our engagement and I want you to say yes.”

“I’m not going to,” he says, voice cold as steel. “You of all people should know how sacred those grounds are to me. I’m not letting another family marry in it. Not only will I look weak to those who don’t know me, I’ll look like a traitor to those who do.”

Jieqiong abruptly rises. “Minghao plans to ask you at the Sunday feast. I’d advise you to think well on this, cousin.” She watches him carefully before she speaks again, cataloguing his every expression. “After all. The longer I’m here, the longer Junhui is.”

🏹

He rides for the Grounds that night. It’s just a silly, impulsive decision to add to the hundred others he’s made. A few of the guards attempt to discern his whereabouts. He tells only Chan, making him swear the information is only available to Jeonghan or Seungcheol. Chan attempts to dissuade him from travelling alone, explaining that it’ll take just a moment to saddle up his horse and travel alongside, but Wonwoo is gone before he finishes his sentence.

The path is dark, but Wonwoo’s travelled it so many times that it is imprinted in his mind. Even his horse knows where to go. Despite his familiarity with the route, it’s been a great number of days since he’s visited the Grounds. There’s not much point, objectively: no one lives there anymore. Not since his uncle died and the knights stopped training there, not since his aunt died afterwards and then there was no one else there, and the servants who set the land with flowers need only arrive once a month.

More than anything else, it _hurts_ to be here. To be so close to his parents and to face nothing more than cold statues in an even colder tomb. To see orange trees and knows there won’t be anyone waiting underneath them. But if it was just a matter of pain every moment he set foot here, it would be easy to leave and never return. And the reason _why_ he comes back, despite the grief in his heart whenever he draws closer, is stronger than anything that would make him keep away.

Serenity settles over him like a cloud when he’s here. He remembers once, distantly, his mother told him he was born here—all are. It made him feel powerful, even as child, to walk along these granite steps and feel the first breaths of a hundred Kings in the air around him.

He dismounts his horse. The graveyard is perhaps the most eerie at this time of night, but he would feel uncomfortable if he didn’t pay his respects first. Wind whistles through the leaves of the surrounding trees. The only other mourner here is is an owl in the distance. Moss has started to grow through the cracks in the tiled mosaics that periodically intersperse the ground. Being here always anchors him, reminds him of who he is and the burden he bears. A King was always meant to carry the weight of his people behind him, it’s just sometimes Wonwoo feels like he carries that weight inside him.

The Grounds used to be so different. With his uncle and aunt as their custodians, it was a buzz of activity. Knights and scholars both used to find solace in the shade of the cedar trees. There was no fee to enter, rather just the understanding to leave a donation in aid of reconstruction. Such old buildings were prone to decay, after all, and this was the closest thing to sacred their court had. Whenever Wonwoo had come here with his parents, he’d been overwhelmed by the amount of people present.

He recalls with fondness how bright the Grounds would look in the summer, when the orange trees were in bloom, and the thick, juicy fruits hung down, tempting anyone to try. He inspects the trees now, feels the leaves brush against his neck. He gazes up into the thick growth, but sees no fruit yet. Soon, though. Flowers bud up and down the trees. They’ll look beautiful in a few weeks, with unfolded white petals. He’d almost stay here and wait for it if he could. Just put the Kingdom on hold for a while.

As much as this place reminds him of his own mortality, it reminds him of his childhood as well. The first time he met Junhui was here, on a day where the sun shone so high in the sky. Wonwoo had always been a small child and, even at the age of fourteen, people often assumed he was far younger than he actually was. He stared up at the oranges, enticingly glaring down at him, but ultimately out of his reach. And then the sun came out, but it wasn’t the one in the sky, but a boy with hair just as golden.

He picked off two oranges easily—he was so tall, after all, it was easy for him. When he smiled, it spread across his whole face.

“For you, Your Highness,” the boy grinned. He wore the uniform of one training to be a knight, but had the face of one destined to be the inspiration for marble statues. “Don’t you love the oranges this time of year?”

Wonwoo was been more than a little stunned. Accepted the fruit wordlessly from the outstretched hand.

“Need me to peel it for you?” he asked, not unkindly. His long fingers dug into the flesh of the orange, pulling it apart easily. He popped a segment into his mouth, letting it rise up like a smile. It was so bizarre, Wonwoo couldn’t help but laugh.

“No, I can do it myself,” Wonwoo said. He let the peel drop to the ground and it scarcely touched the grass for a second before Junhui picked them up. It was sticky but he didn’t seem to mind, and shoved it into the pocket of his uniform. When he noticed Wonwoo staring, he waved his hand.

“I’m supposed to do laundry tonight anyway, don’t worry about it. It’s just clothes, and it’s hardly becoming to let the Grounds be littered with fruit peels,” he said. 

“I don’t think I’ve met you before,” Wonwoo finally said,as he sat up straight, attempting to emulate the King he was going to be one day. He didn’t sound half as intimidating as he thought he did, but Junhui still bowed low.

“I’ve not had the honour to meet the Prince yet,” he said, voice soft. “It’s truly a blessed day of my life. I am Junhui, and I hope to be a knight under your service one day.”

And Wonwoo remembered thinking that even if he knew nothing about his combat abilities or physical prowess or anything more than his name alone, he’d let Junhui serve him till the day he died.

If Wonwoo looks at the trees now, he feels like he can see that exact interaction play out, can imagine the figure of his younger self sitting on a tree stump, fingers sticky with orange juice. It would be several months before he saw Junhui again and yet, during that time, he didn’t stop thinking about him. He was still young, had no use for a personal bodyguard to the degree of importance as between his father and Seungcheol, but the day he turned sixteen, he asked his parents to give Junhui the role. They had laughed to themselves, his mother had pinched his cheek and said in that airy voice of hers “ _Do you expect to encounter a lot of danger?”_

But Wonwoo had been adamant, he always was, and at the end of the day, it was not the choice of the King or Queen but Junhui himself. And Junhui had accepted the role with tears in his eyes, bowing low, kissing Wonwoo’s feet. Wonwoo had wanted him to stand up again, don’t get your uniform dirty, just fetch him more oranges.

It had become such a habit for Wonwoo to see Junhui next to him, and indeed, so often he accompanied him to the Cedarwood Grounds as well, even when his presence was unnecessary. He feels him here now. Like Junhui’s settled somewhere between the trees and any moment he’ll appear out, his hair glowing like the sun, grinning like always and will explain he got distracted chasing a passing fox.

It’s not something as a simple as _remembering_ though. Wonwoo has seen these visions for years, ever since he lost Junhui. It’s only ever here, at the Grounds, where he’ll walk along the orange trees and swear he sees the flash of a smile. And it’s always him, it’s _always_ him. A hundred dead Kings and Queens are buried around him, but he sees the one alive person without a drop of royal blood within him. Wonwoo keeps this to himself, however. A mad king is such a cliche, after all, and Wonwoo wouldn’t want to worry anyone else.

Not that there’s anything worth worrying about. The Junhuis he sees are always just brief flashes. These are not vengeful spirits attempting to lure him to his death—rather, they seem like fleeting memories of happier days. This land has always been so special, after all, being the birthplace and resting grounds of so many royalty in his family. It’s not surprising if the veil between life and death is thinner here.

This theory falls apart when he starts to wonder why he only ever sees Junhui, and not any of the countless dead relatives in his family tree—but Wonwoo doesn’t want to question that. He doesn’t want to question any of it, because at least he gets to look at Junhui a little while longer.

And for the first time, he sees Junhui as he exists now, older. The image shifts for a moment, and Junhui smiles—and then it fades. Wonwoo tries to contain his disappointment. He should not be so obsessed with visions, not when the real thing is in his Kingdom right now, but oh, it’s much easier to reconcile with something that cannot speak. Easier for Wonwoo, because there’s no chance of his apology being rejected.

With the vision gone, Wonwoo knows there’s little point in remaining here for any longer. He craves seeing that smile in reality. He’s no longer satisfied with mere projections.

🏹

“You know,” Zhengting says, his words slurring, “your Court really is something else! It’s so… _different_.”

Zhengting, like Jeonghan, enjoys wine a little too much. However, unlike Jeonghan who always makes excuses to leave before any public intoxication occurs and waters down his own drink during important meetings, Zhengting refuses to leave his seat. Both Minghao and Jieqiong seem endlessly endeared and are content to let him continue his rant. 

“I can’t imagine what you mean, Zhengting,” Jeonghan replies through gritted teeth. The task of keeping Zhengting in line is one that has fallen to the most capable tamer, but ultimately, he’s still restricted by societal pleasantries. While Wonwoo is certain that Jeonghan would derive great pleasure from smacking him against the back of his head, there’s not much he can really do in front of Zhengting’s Crown Prince.

“No, really, first of all, you eat with a knife and a fork? That’s bizarre to me, what if the food is liquid in consistency? We always keep a spoon on the table,” Zhengting notes.

Wonwoo heaves a deep sigh. Perhaps, in another life, Zhengting should have been a Cultural Ambassador. It’s certainly more plausible than the reality that he allegedly gives political advice to Minghao. Joshua is seated on his other side, and his expression is one of bemusement. He sees Wonwoo looking at him, and raises an eyebrow—and that’s the extent of interaction he’ll permit himself.

Sometimes it does get very lonely.

“Right, and the next thing, why do all of your guards insist upon this stiff-faced expression? It seems so counterintuitive. At our court, we treat our guards like the human beings they are. Just because they protect nobility does not mean they aren’t worthy of something as simple as conversation,” Zhengting continues, listing off on his fingers.

Wonwoo scans the room. He hasn’t bothered to get to know the rest of Minghao’s party. He figures that by the time tomorrow arrives and Minghao comes to formally ask about his engagement, the answer Wonwoo provides will confirm there’s absolutely no point in him learning their names to begin with. For all Jieqiong’s assertions of familial bonds, he can’t let a _stranger_ there, that’s for certain. It’s his birthplace, it’s part of him. What would his mother say, his father, his aunt and uncle? It’s in this particular line of thinking, he starts to feel guilty there, remembering that it was they who took her in as a child to begin with.

Zhengting takes another theatrical sip from his goblet. “Even your alcohol leaves so much to be desired. You genuinely like this? There’s this wise man who once said that wine provokes desire but takes away performance. I find myself reminded of those words as I drink this.”

“Is that so?” Jeonghan replies, smiling brightly. “I had no idea you were taking so well to our hospitality. And here I thought you said these locals weren’t your taste! I’m so glad you found nighttime companionship in these walls, Zhengting.”

It’s only because of hours and hours of training that Wonwoo is able to suppress his snort. Zhengting’s flushed cheeks are equally as a result of embarrassment and wine but he clears his throat.

“I was merely… _suggesting_.”

“If you don’t have any fact to base it upon, perhaps it’s best not to share.” Jeonghan leans back in his chair, triumphant for even this small victory. The visiting Camellia Court members find themselves intrigued—even Junhui, who had kept a blank expression every day this week, finally sets his gaze on Zhengting, even if it’s filled with pity.

Wonwoo leans closer to Jeonghan, whispers in his ear: “I think you have too much fun with him.”

Jeonghan opens his mouth to reply—but is silenced by Zhengting humming aloud. He looks as if he’s about to tell him off, niceties be damned, but something in his porcelain face has gone dark, and Wonwoo finds himself suddenly concerned.

“You know, I’ve noticed another difference between my court and yours,” Zhengting says as he walks closer to Minghao. He kneels in front of him, his back to Jeonghan and Wonwoo both. “As much as I love and worship my Lord, and I know we have that in common, I just simply do not dare have the bond you seem to have with yours.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Jeonghan says. His nails are digging into the chair. Wonwoo is grateful this conversation is not one he has to reply to. He doesn’t think he’d be able to maintain the necessary composure without dislodging some part of Zhengting’s perfect face.

Zhengting turns around. “I’m just remarking that it seems you and our dear King Jeon have such an _intimate_ relationship.”

Wonwoo doesn’t care that Zhengting thinks he and Jeonghan are fucking. He doesn’t care that Zhengting’s correct, either. What he cares about is the crack in Junhui’s expression, the sudden darkness that crosses over him. It’s objectively subtle—the only reason he even notices is because he’s spent far too much time staring at Junhui’s face and he can map out what indifference looks like. And it doesn’t look like this.

“I think my Lord just trusts me unconditionally. Such is a result when you’ve been together as long as he and I have,” Jeonghan replies, but Wonwoo’s stopped caring about their little spat.

Junhui avoids his gaze, as he’s always done, but the tension remains in his posture.

“Perhaps we should all turn in for the night,” Joshua says next to him, voice soft but firm. “Tomorrow is Your Highness’s last day here. You need to be well-rested. As always, if you have any requests for your bedrooms, please do not hesitate to ask me. It is my privilege to serve you.”

Junhui rises mechanically and he leaves before anyone else does. It’s a minute before Minghao even notices—he looks over his shoulder, once, twice and can’t locate him. He turns to Jieqiong, whispers something wordlessly but she shakes her head. Wonwoo finds himself rising off his throne as well. A pathway naturally forms where he walks, and he doesn’t look behind him as he passes Minghao to walk out.

Certainly, no one can _prove_ he was going to look for Junhui. His knowledge of the castle dictates that there’s a limited amount of areas he could have gone to unaccompanied at this time of night. He follows the simplest path and it takes just two simple questions to two different guards and he sees the familiar sunshine hair. His hand is upon one of the great organs, gently enough to not press on the notes, but with sufficient pressure to feel the smooth keys under his fingertips. He doesn’t react to Wonwoo’s presence, but judging by the ever so slight hitch in his shoulders, that’s a conscious effort. In such a small corridor, there’s little that can go unnoticed.

“It doesn’t work,” Wonwoo says, gazing at the entanglement of pipes rising out of the instrument. There’s no dust coating the wood. He makes a mental note to tell Joshua to reward the servants. They truly are meticulous.

“I know,” Junhui looks up at him. “It hasn’t been working for years. I’d have thought you’d fixed it by now.”

“We have other organs,” Wonwoo says, almost feeling guilty. “Hardly anyone comes down this corridor, and certainly not for any musical reason.”

“It’s still unbecoming to just have this broken thing lying around.” Junhui presses his finger onto one of the keys and as expected, no sound emerges. A frown grows on his lips. “Why did you follow me?”

Wonwoo’s lips are dry. “I wanted to talk.”

“You wanted to talk?” Junhui repeats. There’s no mercy in his gaze. Wonwoo can certainly understand the reason why.

“Yes.”

There’s a prolonged moment of silence. Wonwoo wonders if this is permission, if he should just go ahead and start saying what he wants to say but he’s not sure where to begin. Should he go down on his knees, should he gift him a thousand gold pieces, should he cry? He stands still, unable to decide any course of action.

“I’ve nothing to talk to you about,” Junhui says, slams the keyboard cover shut. “If you have any concerns, please do talk to my Crown Prince.”

“Wait,” Wonwoo calls, following him instantly. Zhengting was wrong, there’s no reason for guards to be able to talk to the nobility, otherwise they’d certainly laugh as their King flusters over a foriegn knight who clearly has no time for him. “Wait!”

“I do not have to obey any of your orders,” Junhui replies, not turning around. “I’m not supposed to leave my Prince’s side. I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I must go at once.”

This was not how it was supposed to happen. It’s the first conversation they’ve had in years and it’s going all wrong. Wonwoo grabs Junhui’s shoulder and for a moment, it seems like Junhui’s self-defense training kicks in, and he spins around, his hand dangerously close to Wonwoo’s neck. Whether it was because he realized the reality of his actions, or because suddenly there were four sets of eyes on him from the royal guard, he instantly steps back.

“I am terribly sorry, Your Highness, but my Prince needs me.” And everytime he says ‘my Prince’ and doesn’t mean Wonwoo, it feels like his heart rips a little more.

“Junhui,” Wonwoo says, softer.

“Don’t call me that. It’s Jun,” he says, and when he walks away, this time Wonwoo lets him.

🏹

“It’s a rare thing in this world to find the person you want to spend the rest of your life with. To look at this individual and realize that, ultimately, nothing else matters. That all your mistakes of the past were worth it because it led you to this moment, to meeting _them_.” While Minghao’s words are thick with emotion, his voice is remarkably composed. His hand is tight over Jieqiong’s. “I think that I would give her the stars in the sky if she asked it of me.”

Jieqiong’s eyes are glassy.

Wonwoo realizes that any doubts he had over the authenticity of their relationship, the concern that perhaps Jieqiong was scheming for his kingdom, were entirely false. Certainly, Jieqiong is not beyond machinations of her own creation, but her love for Minghao seems to be true.

“Congratulations,” Wonwoo says, and he sounds sincere. He _is_ sincere. For all his bitterness over Minghao’s early engagement, he can’t deny that he seems happier than he ever has in his past. And indeed, Wonwoo was there to see him win a tournament. This glow in his eye is something different altogether. “You have the blessing of my court and of me personally. I wish you prosperity in your engagement and your marriage.”

Jieqiong wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist, leaving her eyeliner slightly smudged. Her gaze is fixed upon Wonwoo now.

“Thank you, King Jeon. For all our differences in the past, we do have so much in common. It’s difficult being a monarch at our age. Leadership will always be a burden that we must bear with a smile, and I can only ever wish for us to be closer.”

 _Give me back Junhui and I’ll carve each and every one of your wedding invitations into stone if that’s what you want_ , Wonwoo thinks. He merely nods, unable to say much more. Minghao makes sense, of course, he’s the only other member of a royal family even remotely close to him in age and rank.

“King Jeon, this meeting was not only an announcement,” Minghao inhales. “I ask you something in strictest confidence.”

Minghao had specifically requested privacy after the meal had finished. It seemed almost fitting they ended up in a chapel, rarely used, but entirely quiet. Not even a single guard was allowed inside: the only breaths inside here are those of Minghao, his new fiancee and Wonwoo himself.

“Continue,” Wonwoo asks. He will not pretend to be surprised, he decides.

“As you have no doubt realized, Jieqiong is an orphan, who for many years was placed under the care of your aunt and uncle. During that time, she lived at your ceremonial homelands.”

“This is true.”

Minghao nods. “She has such good memories associated with that place and, indeed, it is there where she became the woman she is today. I wish to experience that for myself. And I wish to show the world my beloved and where she came from.”

“If this is where it’s going,” Wonwoo says, smiling, “You’re asking something great of me, Crown Prince Xu.”

“I know,” he says, bows his head. “I know it’s something unspeakable to even ask, but I only do so because I know how much it means to both Jieqiong and myself. I would like to host our engagement at the Cedarwood Grounds.”

Jieqiong watches. Interested. She’s said very little the entire time they’ve been in this chapel, content to let Minghao speak their case instead. Wonwoo supposes that’s because she’s already asked, she’s made it clear why she wants permission. And she’s also listed that very important fact: that if Wonwoo was to say no, they would leave and not return. In a way, all Minghao’s fanciful sentences do is give him time to go over what Jieqiong had already told him. 

He would not see Jun again, not for years possibly. Maybe at the wedding, a passing glance, but he could never talk to him. Not in their court, certainly. Wonwoo imagines that for a moment, the idea that the next time he sees Jun, it’s another six years. Would he have his first grey hair or still be as eternally blonde? Would he be married? Wonwoo would certainly have to be—by that age, he’d certainly want to have produced an heir already. Their lives would have moved on beyond a point of reconciliation. A sickness uncoils in his stomach.

“I ask so much of you,” Minghao says, and rests his hand on Wonwoo’s instead. His eyes are sincere. “But know that if I can, I would repay this favour a thousand times over.”

He should have consulted with Jeonghan. If not his entire council, he should absolutely have asked for Jeonghan’s advice. Why didn’t he? Jeonghan has a clear-head, would have been able to think on this situation with the value of an objective outsider. But perhaps that’s the exact reason Wonwoo hesitated in asking him. This land belongs to his _family_ , and ultimately, no one but family could have any say over what happens to it. And he has no family. And the closest person associated to the Grounds is right in front of him, his cousin Kyulkyung, and the knight who protects her fiancé, Junhui. He wonders what his parents would have said. But then again, if his parents were here, he’d never be having this conversation to begin with.

Stripped of everything else, the answer presents itself.

“Yes,” Wonwoo finds himself saying. “Yes, you can.”

🏹

The castle is busier. The busiest it’s ever been in recent memory, and it’s much preferred than the last time it was like this, when all the drapery was black, and the most common sound were muffled sobs. It’s different now, when Wonwoo hears the sound of excited chatter in a different language. It’ll only increase after today, Zhengting tells him as they wait outside the gate.

“Everyone’s very excited,” he says, running his hands through his dark blonde hair. He stretches himself out like a cat, smiles broadly. He looks almost _harmless_ like this. “For many of them, it’s the first time they’ve left the capital!”

“And you? Is it your first time too?” Wonwoo asks, more out of politeness than genuine interest.

“Oh, I’ve been around the world,” Zhengting replies with a calculated hint of nonchalance. “I’ve seen the peaks of the highest mountains, journeyed through the driest deserts, and bathed in the rivers that run into the deepest valleys. Before I was the Crown Prince’s advisor, I was more of a wanderer, really.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “I’ve never heard of that profession before.”

“That’s because it’s _not_ a profession,” Jeonghan takes the liberty of answering. “It’s something that children with too much money do.”

Wonwoo doesn’t even try to suppress his sigh. Their antagonism has been non-stop, only escalating in severity. Only yesterday, he walked into Jeonghan’s quarters and found Zhengting there as well, breath heaving, face red, like he’d just been screaming. As a consolation, he tells himself that they’ll surely be less likely to run into each other when the castle is filled with the rest of Minghao’s court.

Zhengting makes a noise under his breath, and it seems like he’s about to launch into a retaliation, but Wonwoo clears his throat. “I hear the horses,” he says, pointing towards where the first carriage appears.

“Ah, well-spotted, my Lord!” Zhengting claps his hands together. “You’re so good at this, I can see that your reputation as an archer is well-deserved.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes.

For the next few moments, it truly is impossible to talk. Hooves thunder past the entrance of the castle as they make for the stables, at least eight of them, possibly more. It’s hard to count with how fast they travel past the gate. Wonwoo had known Minghao was inviting many members of his court, both servants and nobility to attend the ceremony, and was more than fine with it after checking with Joshua there would be sufficient room. But looking now at the masses of people making their way into the side entrances, for the first time it seems like the castle is a little too small. 

“Your pants are awfully tight, Zhengting,” Jeonghan remarks, openly gazing at the irrationally impressive length of his legs. “Do you need me to recommend you tailors in the area?”

Zhengting flutters his eyelashes. “Oh, Jeonghan, I had no idea you paid such close attention.”

“Only because it seems like each hard-working thread might snap at any given moment,” Jeonghan replies and then, finally, stops staring.

“I’m honoured by your concern, really, but I just don’t think any of you locals would be able to replicate a stitch as fine as the kind of my court. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, I’m plenty flexible.”

Wonwoo’s anxieties are not alleviated by their bickering. Truthfully, there’s probably only one person who can and he certainly isn’t either of them. He turns to Jeonghan. “Where can I find Joshua?”

“He’s in his study,” Zhengting and Jeonghan answer at the same time. They proceed to stare at each other. Wonwoo does not care enough to find out why and sets off in the direction they said.

🏹 

Joshua’s eyes are bloodshot behind his glasses and the coffee in his cup is not only cold, but a film has grown over the top. Despite this, when he sees Wonwoo walk in, he instantly rises from his desk. His legs buckle slightly, most likely protesting the sudden movement after hours of stillness.

“Your Highness!” Joshua clears his throat. “To what do I owe this honour? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing,” Wonwoo replies. “I had actually come to ask you about the arrival of the individuals from Camellia Court.”

“Absolutely, I have all the arrangements here,” he gestures to the scrolls surrounding him, threatening to amass into one conglomarate and consume his desk and then himself. “Everyone should be arriving today with the exception of the General Xukun and his partner. They’re travelling from the West and consequently, will be a little late, they probably won’t make it for the rehearsal dinner but—”

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” Wonwoo interjects, “But your legs keep shaking.”

Joshua smiles sheepishly, waves it off. “It’s nothing.”

“Why don’t you sit down? Properly?” Wonwoo gestures to the couch. They had it moved in after Joshua spent far too many nights with his candle still burning. He’d say it’s fine but the constant yawning and dark circles under his eyes told a different story. While there was no guarantee the mere presence of a couch could cure the workaholic in him, at least if Jeonghan could more easily to persuade Joshua onto that than to walk up the stairs to his quarters at night.

“That really isn’t necessary, Your Highness!”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes, sits down on the couch himself. “Sit. That is a command from your King.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything more and obeys. He sinks into the plush cushions with a sigh of relief. A scarf Jeonghan often wears is tucked into the corner. “It’s just been very busy. Since I’ve taken over this position from my superior, I never had to organize something of this scale. Not that I’m complaining in the slightest, this is an honour.”

Not for the first time, Wonwoo wishes his inner circle would feel safe enough to voice their problems to him without feeling the need to follow it up with an assertion of their loyalty. But, at the same time, he won’t deny the security he feels knowing that even when he asks so much of them, they still care.

“Are you managing? Do you need an assistant?” Wonwoo asks. He can reliably say that there’s no one in this Court who is even remotely capable of performing Joshua’s job, but surely even a child could follow his simple instructions.

“Not at all, Your Highness. More hours in the day, perhaps, but not an assistant.” Joshua smiles, wide and catlike.

Being the castle administrator is the most thankless job in the entire court. While it has the rare benefits of being permitted to attend elite meetings, it was hardly worth the sheer volume of work. Sometimes it seemed like it was on Joshua’s shoulders alone that the castle functioned at all. Within in his large hands, he was responsible for the cooking, the cleaning, the military and the dignitaries and somehow he found a way to orchestrate their movements like a symphony. Wonwoo would pay him in gold bars if he could.

“What troubles you?” Joshua asks. There are ink stains surrounding his palm.

“Besides the few that have yet to come, do all the visitors have rooms assigned to them?” Theoretically his castle is still not at its full capacity, but it’s been so many years since it’s been this occupied. It would be a disaster if there were not enough space for Minghao’s guests.

“I’ve triple-checked it.” Joshua’s face is always so soothing to look at. “Crown Prince Xu’s servants occupy the same wings as ours, and his dignitaries take the guest rooms. Several carriages are returning, so there’s no need to be concerned about the stables either.”

Wonwoo breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Good to hear.”

Joshua would never lie. While he’s certain it is for the best to allow Jieqiong’s engagement to occur, he had been torturing himself imagining the awful scenarios that may play out due to his own negligence. He’s due for a meeting with Jeonghan in a few moments but wonders if he can blow it off and take some time alone in his room instead. He’s crafting his excuse when Joshua clears his throat.

“You know, since Your Highness is here, there is one thing I might dare ask your guidance on.”

Wonwoo blinks, unable to even guess. “Yes?”

There’s a pause as Joshua decides his words. “Crown Prince Xu’s knight Jun is neither a servant nor a dignitary. I am unsure where to place him. I had initially thought to keep him the room next to the Crown Prince and his betrothed, but I fear that he may take that as offensive. From what Zhengting has told me, there’s far more boundaries between those who are royal and those who are not in his court.”

Wonwoo stares at him for a long time. “Put the knight in the chambers opposite mine.”

Joshua blinks. “Your Highness, are you sure? Those are for the hosting royal family. tTypically it would be occupied by aunts and uncles and other close relatives. It’s rather unprecedented to host a foreign knight there.”

 _But he’s not_ , Wonwoo almost wants to say, _he was mine first_. “Assign him to those quarters. And that is an order, Joshua.”

🏹 

It had taken much persuasion and misdirection before Jeonghan agreed to leave him alone. It was only after Wonwoo had let a hand grace his forehead, and a tired sigh escape his lips that Jeonghan rationalized there was no point in the host of such an event to be exhausted several days before it’s even due to occur.

“Go straight to bed,” Jeonghan had commanded. “You have breakfast with Crown Prince Xu in the morning to discuss the preliminary arrangements and you need to look well-rested. So, for that matter, control your appetite as well. You bloat terribly when you’ve eaten right before bed, so disobey me and I’ll know.”

Empty threats are Jeonghan’s weapon of choice. He has no real power over Wonwoo’s actions, and there’s no retribution to follow if he doesn’t listen to him. It’s nice that he pretends at least; it makes Wonwoo feel like there’s some sort of parental responsibility in his life, even if it comes from his royal advisor and frequent bedmate. His life was always destined to be intrinsically twisted and wrong, his destiny grew over the tragedy that marked his past, and he considers every ‘normal’ interaction he was with anyone to be a success. He can only ever hope to portray the image of a well-adjusted King, even if one only exists in the minds of his subjects.

He’s been mindlessly staring into his reflection for minutes now. He’s vaguely aware of his need to have a haircut soon as he threads his fingers through his own mass of black tangles. He tries to convince himself he’s not _waiting_ , because _waiting_ is adding new tiers to his own manipulation. Yet he has nothing else he wants to do, wasting time away staring at a mirror, as if investigating whether a different pair of eyes will stare back at him.

It’s another ten minutes when a door outside opens and then immediately shuts. He had been preoccupied with investigating a blemish on his face, thinking to himself that he needs to be treated by the ladies again, but all thoughts disappear when he hears the sound. He rises to his feet instantly, out of his own chambers. He vaguely regards the guards at the end of the hallway. He doesn’t bother with them. He knocks once, twice, three times.

There are footsteps. And then a pause.

Objectively, there’s some part of him that feels guilty for trapping Junhui into a conversation. He’ll atone later. He’s had many teachers throughout the year instruct him that being King means making difficult decisions, even at any consequences. Certainly those teachers were referring to matters different than this, but there’s not much other advice he knows. Wonwoo knocks again.

When the door opens, only a pair of wide eyes are seen. He does not seem surprised. “Your Highness.”

“Junhui, can we speak?”

There’s a look that crosses Junhui’s face, a bit like he’s been struck. “I told you I didn’t want to.”

Wonwoo’s hand goes against the door, not quite forcing it open, but enough to keep it from closing. “Please.” There’s not much he can say, certainly not in the middle of a hallway. He can only hope there’s weight in the sight of a King about to beg—enough for Junhui to care about his dignity.

Junhui allows him inside, locks the door firmly behind. Wonwoo shouldn’t be surprised that he hasn’t settled in yet; he’s only been in the room for moments before he came to interrupt him. Wonwoo looks up, thinking of what to say, and all thoughts leave his mind as he stares at Junhui.

He’s as beautiful as the day he left. His shoulders have broadened. There’s a new scar under his chin. Wonwoo feels a rush of protectiveness he knows he shouldn’t. Knows he doesn’t deserve it anymore. Junhui runs a hand through his sun-struck hair, mumbles something under his breath and then seems to compose himself.

“Your Highness, did you think that after following you to your room for years that I’d forget where it is?” Junhui says softly. “I don’t think it’s at all a coincidence.”

“I didn’t expect you to,” Wonwoo replies. He has the grace to feel at least a little caught out. “But I’ve wanted to speak to you for a long time.”

Junhui can’t seem to look Wonwoo in the eye. “You’re as persistent as ever.”

“I am.” He sits down at the foot of Junhui’s bed, cataloguing the sight in front of him, pressing it into his memories. Updating the Junhui of his past with the one of the present.

“It’s been many years,” Junhui says. “I’d have thought you’d forgot about me.”

“Impossible, Junhui, impossible—”

“ _Stop_ ,” he nears forward, eyes blazing. “Stop calling me that. I don’t go by that name anymore. It’s Jun.”

It seems such an insignificant change but not to him. “My apologies,” Wonwoo says. “And also for… _this_.” He breathes in but Junhui cuts him off again.

“If you’re about to mention the events of the tournament, I will strongly suggest you do not,” Jun says, his voice cold as steel. “It’s been a long six years, your Highness, let us not undo the healing that has occurred since then.”

“But if you will not let me apologize, why am I here?” Wonwoo says.

“Why _are_ you here?” Junhui repeats. Tension builds on his shoulders. “Your Highness, I truly believe the best course of action for both of us is to pretend that nothing has happened. For the sake of my Prince, and for the sake of your Kingdom, let us bury the past. You are an accomplished King and I serve the Crown Prince Xu. Let’s not think about how we got there.” His hand is on the doorknob. “I think you should leave.”

It’s not often a King gets dismissed in his own castle. Wonwoo does not rise. “Jun, I’ve wanted to talk to you for the past six years. There’s so much I want to tell you, so many things I want to apologize for. I can’t just leave because it’ll be easier.”

Jun’s hands curl into fists. “Your Highness, you must understand that I am trying my utmost best to show you the respect your position deserves but you’re asking a lot of me. And I’ve asked _nothing_ of you. Ever.”

All Jun ever did was _give_ : his service, his energy, his heart. And it still wasn’t enough back then, and he’s spent enough nights cursing his past self for never recognizing that.

“If I could just explain the circumstances that led up to that day—”

“The circumstances?” Jun repeats, stepping closer. There’s vivid rage painted on his face. “You think I haven’t had time over the years to think about every minute of every hour of that day? You think I don’t know exactly what occurred, that I haven’t played it out a thousand times over, attempting to understand?” His breathing is heavy.

In Wonwoo’s mind, this conversation played out differently.

“I’ve relived the day of the tournament ever since and every time it always has the same conclusion, and it always ends with you pawning me off, so no, Your Highness, I don’t think I need you to _explain_ the circumstances: I’m aware of the circumstances. I’m also aware of the results and it’s _me_ , boxed up and sent to the other side of the world in a language I don’t understand, serving a monarch I don’t worship.”

There are tears prickling the corners of Jun’s eyes.

“Junhui,” Wonwoo murmurs.

He feels the grip choke off his word before he sees it happen.

“ _Do not call me Junhui,_ ” he spits, hands tightened around Wonwoo’s throat. “That is not my name anymore. But you wouldn’t know that, would you? You got to live your happy life as King having everyone else serve and die for you while I was suffering under the blazing sun of that Court.”

Wonwoo can hear the blood rushing in his head. Jun’s hold is forceful and already he struggles to breath underneath it. His thumbs connect at the base of Wonwoo’s throat like it’s a golden necklace and not strangulation. Words can’t make it to his lips, struggling in his throat.

“They used to mock me, at first. My accent, the way I dressed, the way I ate... _everything_.” Jun’s voice is quiet. For there is no need to shout; not when his face is mere inches away from Wonwoo’s. “I tried to be dignified and noble at first, to be the kind of knight that this court would be proud of, but then I realized…” he laughs a bit, the pressure increasing in his hands. “What’s the point? Why am I loyal to a land that threw me away? To the _man_ who placed me as a prize, equating me with golden saddles and war horses? I had to tear down everything I was just to fit in. And what’s the end result? I’m finally back and I walk down in these halls and even my old friends can’t recognize me. And I can’t say I’m surprised. Sometimes I struggle to recognize myself.”

Coughs splutter out of Wonwoo. His hands grip the bedding, but he can’t will the energy necessary to raise them higher. He can feel the blood rushing to his face, his skin reddening.

“I thought I was fine with it. I thought I had accepted my fate and made a life for myself. I’m the Crown Prince’s most revered knight and he trusts me like his own brother. I’m _happy_. I was fine with seeing Seungcheol occupy the position I once held. I was fine with watching the people I used to break bread with everyday look at me like I was a stranger. I was fine with _everything_.”

He couldn’t call for guards even if he wanted to. His voice is hoarse, non-existent, and only a ragged breath can escape through Jun’s hold. There is no one that could help him, no one that would. And yet, despite everything, despite the pounding in his head, the faltering in his chest and the edges of his vision turning black—he sees Jun, and can’t find the capacity to be mad at Jun. He's earned his right to be to hold the life of a king in his hands. He's almost grateful he is.

“ _I was fine till I saw you._ ”

Jun lets go.

Clarity comes back to Wonwoo in blurs. He coughs, loud and rough. All he’s aware of is his rapid, unsteady breathing and the sight of Jun backing away. Each footstep is stunted, slow. His throat burns, the skin even more so. He bends down, waits until his lungs feel like they function again.

When he looks up, Jun is still there. Still staring at him.

“I never wanted to hurt my King,” Jun whispers. “But you’re not my King anymore, are you? And that hurts more than anything my hands could have done to you.”

🏹 

A total of twenty minutes had been spent staring into his reflection before he went to visit Jun. He had the time to painstakingly investigate every inch of his face, observe each blemish and scar that surfaced on his flesh. It is because of this that when he looks in the mirror now, he’s able to map out the exact pattern of Jun’s fingers from the bruises that encircle his neck. Dark and purple, they bloom like peonies. Wonwoo runs a hand over the skin—immediately flinches at the pain.

His breath has returned to normal, the red vanished from his face and his heart has stopped thundering in his chest. Something strange remains in the space between his ribs however, this knowledge that a few moments ago he was so close to death he could almost feel its cold embrace. Jun would never have killed him, of course not—but Wonwoo cannot deny that he almost did.

There’s no doubt that he had been provoking him. He had not been careful with Jun’s feelings, had not realized that in all his hours of regret that Jun would have his own grudge to carry. Wonwoo feels like he might drown in the ocean that’s opened up inside of him.

Of course, he regrets his actions. But to say something so obvious has little value. Yes, he wishes he had done a thousand things differently the day of the tournament, but there had been no point in wishing to turn back time anymore than there had been in wishing for Jun to return. Now he had. He was here. In the chambers opposite his own. Where he had strangled Wonwoo until his vision turned black and fuzzy.

Gentler this time, he lets his fingers dance around the bruises. It’s more bearable like this, a familiar reminder of pain, something he deserves for all that he’s caused Jun in the past few years. Wonwoo’s eyes don’t leave his reflection. Purple marks are hypnotic, their uneven nature, the swirls of colours marking his flesh.

And it was _Jun_ who put them there. Jun, who once used to bestow such syrupy sweet kisses that Wonwoo would fall asleep to them. Jun, who once would push him against the wardrobes in this very room, would remove every trace of worry that plagued Wonwoo throughout the day. Jun, his Jun, who sacrificed himself body and mind every time to protect Wonwoo.

This is the first time Jun has touched him in years. His grip is still powerful. And he held Wonwoo’s neck harsher than anything he’s ever held before. But maybe that’s for the best—Wonwoo deserves that. In his mind, he still sees Jun in front of him, gaze fixed, eyes glassy. He still _feels_ Jun, the warmth of his hands, callouses a constant yet still so soft. Soft, even as he chokes him.

Teasing, almost, the way his fingertips dance over the bruises. A ragged breath escapes him. Once, Jun told him how beautiful he looked when he was kissed. Jun always said he looked beautiful. Well, that was _Junhui,_ his Junhui, his protector, his love, his _knight_. Described the way the lids of his eyes would go heavy, the way his cheeks and chest would flush, the way his voice—normally low and powerful—would become so rough, but so, so high.

The hand that’s not wrapped around his own throat goes between his legs. He never did _this_ with Jun, but oh, _oh_ how he wanted to. He remembers all the _almosts_. At the Cedarwood Grounds, when Jun wiped the orange skin off Wonwoo’s lips, and then Wonwoo pressed him against the couch and they _almost_. The day Jun came back with his hands coated in red, eyes haunted as he kneeled at Wonwoo’s feet and told him he rewarded vengeance with his own hands and Wonwoo licked the blood and sweat out of his mouth and they _almost_. And of course—

The day of the tournament. When Wonwoo grinned with all of his teeth, emboldened by what was destined to be history-defying performance, and let one hand caress Jun’s cheek and the other as a possessive grip on his waist and he made Jun promise to give him his reward, to give his _almost_.

_“If you win?”_

_“When I win.”_

He stares at himself, the moan that escapes him. His cock is heavy in his hand and the slide is rough—but even the idea of standing up to get the oil in his drawers is far too much. And, really, the friction is good. Feels rough, just as he likes it.

The mirror reveals the exact moment the realization hits. Cautiously, Wonwoo increases the pressure on his neck, makes sure his fingers match Jun’s the best he can. A gasp escapes him, and he shudders. Pleasure builds up and he’s suddenly desperate. Unwilling to wait any longer. He’s always been like this, selfish for his own release. That’s what happens when you’re born a King: you want everything and you want everything _now._ If he can’t have Jun, he’ll treasure each bruise like it’s a kiss.

He slackens his grip, then tightens it, finds the rhythm that matches the one he strokes himself to. Distantly, he’s aware of his own depravity, he sees it when he looks into the mirror, but he can’t quite care, not when it feels quite this _good_. He wonders what Jun would think if he could see him like this. What he wouldn’t give to feel Jun’s hand around his neck, to feel his heated breath against his ear, to have him next to him, on top of him, _inside_ him. He’d give up an entire Kingdom for it.

He comes with Jun’s name on his lips.

🏹

With an imperious point of her finger, Jieqiong beckons Wonwoo nearer. “You.”

Wonwoo cringes under the address but, yet again, seems unwilling to correct Jieqiong. Hardly a point now— when she’s Minghao’s wife, she’ll be Queen one day. Might as well get used to hearing her talk like this.

“Yes?” Wonwoo says.

Jieqiong is surrounded by so many serving girls, it seems like she’s the center of a constellation. The top half of her body wears only a simple undervest, but she seems unconcerned with her partial nudity. The girls are creating a skirt for her and fabrics of every colour scatter the floor like a mosaic.

“What colour suits me better? The blue or the black?” On cue, one of the girls holds up two panels of silk.

Wonwoo stares. “Are you sure you’d like to ask my opinion on this?”

“Why else did I call you in?” Jieqiong replies, eyebrows furrowed. She twirls around on her platform. “I think the black is gorgeous, certainly, but it’s not striking enough. It’s my engagement, after all. I’ll always be beautiful, but I very rarely will have the chance to light up the entire room.”

“Sounds like you have your mind made up then.” Quite simply, she’s correct. She will _always_ be beautiful, and whether it’s in blue silk or black silk or any other colour, that does not change.

Jieqiong sighs heavily. “Your Highness, you’re absolutely useless.” She steps off the pedestal. One of the girls instantly wraps her in a robe, and she walks straight towards Wonwoo. For someone quite so short, she always seems taller than she is from afar.

“You girls can leave,” Jieqiong says, waving her hand. “Tzuyu,” she turns to the one next to her. “Can you run a bath for me? When you’re done with that, tell Zhengting to meet me in my quarters. I’m certain he’ll be able to settle this blue and black debacle.”

“Of course, my Lady,” Tzuyu says, bows low. “Farewell, Your Highness.”

Jieqiong must certainly notice the look of shock on Wonwoo’s face and laughs. “And now? Oh, is this about Zhengting? He’s not interested in women. There’s no concern there.” She thinks for a moment. “We actually go to the hot springs frequently. It’s a wonderful activity, very stress-relieving.”

“Ah.” Wonwoo tries to imagine a reality where he and Jeonghan just _casually_ strip naked and relax in the castle pools and it doesn’t even seem plausible, let alone something he’d enjoy doing. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be able to help.”

“He always does.” Jieqiong pauses for a moment. “He was my first friend, you know? I had come to Camellia Court for the first time just as he was setting out for his travels and, even though we could only meet for a few days, I left quite an impression on him. He took the time to send me letters from all across the land. He’s a good man.”

“Jeonghan hates him,” Wonwoo says conversationally. “But I think it’s mutual.”

“Oh, that’s a pity,” Jieqiong straightens her robe. “Are you sure? Zhengting’s way of displaying affection as a child was to pull the other boys hair till they cried. I don’t think it’s changed since then.”

Wonwoo snorts. He takes the liberty of tying Jieqiong’s belt and she smiles at him.

“Thank you, cousin.” She gazes at him, as if remembering something. “Zhengting was my first friend. I think Junhui was my second.”

His grip slackens. He takes a step back. “I wasn’t aware you were close.”

“We grew up together. Quite literally, in fact. The years he spent in training to be a knight were the years I was under your aunt and uncle’s care at the Grounds. I’d hardly say we were close as children, but it’s strange. When you’re so far away from home, anything and anyone who even looks remotely familiar is a blessing.”

🏹

Once, Wonwoo was the pride of his Kingdom. Once, he used to be adored by the nobility. It’s a fact so far-removed from the present that he has difficulty remembering it. His memories are intact, however. Even as a young boy, his skill with a bow and arrow was unparalleled, even compared to the men sworn to protect him and his family. He kept a training regimen stricter than a general and when he was not engaged in etiquette classes, he had a sword in his hand.

That was in the past. Even talent couldn't save his tanking reputation following his ascension to the throne and he stopped practicing, didn’t see much reason in continuing the sport that cost him his knight and his glory. He keeps in shape as much as Seungcheol can persuade him to train in the rin but, without real-life experience, his senses are as dull as the blade of his once prized sword. Peace has made a lazy King. For years, Wonwoo has never been in any actual danger, short of anything his own temper can manifest. He's become a spoiled housecat of a man.

With cold steel at his throat, he becomes abundantly aware of his own heartbeat. And all he can do is distantly think _I probably deserve this_.

"King Jeon," an unfamiliar voice says, "This was easier than I expected."

It was. Wonwoo has become used to the presence of strangers inside his castle gates, assumes every unfamiliar face has some or other connection to Minghao. When Wonwoo doesn't see the guards outside his quarters, he feels relief, knows how worried he was that they’d see him make a fool of himself outside Jun’s door. But was also worried they’d see Jun’s hands around his neck, and Wonwoo didn’t want that. Jun would never hurt him—and if he did, he deserved it.

Ironic that it is outside his own room that he finds his life in peril, and all Wonwoo can think is how easily avoidable this was. There were so many _signs_ : the quiet this side of the castle, the absence of the guards. Even the way the intruder intercepted Wonwoo was so annoyingly _simple_. If this had taken place a few years ago, a younger Wonwoo would have had enough adrenaline pumping through his veins to grip the sides of the blade and shove it back into his face.

But this is now. This is the fate of a lazy King and Wonwoo can only remain perfectly still as he counts every breath.

“You don’t know me, Your Highness,” the intruder says. Hspeaks very fast, trips over his words, as if he can’t contain his excitement at his reality. “But you’ve done unforgivable things to me.”

Wonwoo tries to sound as amiable as possible. “Such as?” It comes out as horribly condescending. His intruder’s grip on the sword tightens.

“You’ve taken everything from me. Your men killed my parents, butchered my entire family.”

“Oh,” Wonwoo says. “I wonder how that feels.”

He sees his own crimson blood on the surface of the sword. He’s not surprised that the blade presses against his skin close enough to cut it. It’s rather remarkable how calm he is about this whole situation. There’s a strong likelihood he may actually perish and he just takes the time to catalogue his thoughts in order, currently despairs that he never got around to give Joshua a raise.

“Don’t try anything, King Jeon. There’s no escape. I’ve timed this perfectly.”

An assassination. None of his family had been assassinated in several generations. _No_ , Wonwoo thinks acidly to himself, _they just got butchered in the middle of a forest like wild deer_.

“Your men slaughtered my family. Mercilessly. We had nothing to do with the death of the King and Queen.” The intruder’s grip is tight against Wonwoo’s clothes. He’s annoyed that he’s touching him. Wants to tell him to stop if Wonwoo will promise not to try anything. He _can’t_ do anything, really, the sword is tight against his neck and even the slightest movement results in his head in a permanent divorce from his body.

“So you’ve come to kill your King?”

“You are not my King.”

That seems contradictory to his behaviour and constant reference to his title, but Wonwoo has enough sense not to say this.

“Don’t suppose I can persuade you with money?” Wonwoo says, more for the sake of it. Maybe it’s for the best if he does die. Such a stupid King should not be in charge of such a spectacular land. This is the price to pay for mediocrity. This is the end that all his detractors predicted the day a sixteen-year-old was enthroned as monarch.

“You can’t bring my family back,” his assassin growls, his voice heavy.

“No, no I can’t. But neither will my death,” Wonwoo says. And then, because he is reasonably sure he’s going to die, says: “I can see where you're coming from though. From personal experience, slaughtering your entire bandit camp did make _me_ feel a lot better.”

He can feel the blood drip down his neck as the blade presses deeper. Winces. Now he starts to reconsider whether that comment was worth it. He can’t really blame himself. He likes to exploit any weakness he can find. Once that skill was revered as a marksman, now all it does is cause him problems among his more gentle-hearted councillors.

He worries Seungcheol will think this is his liability, that if Wonwoo dies it’s because he wasn’t protecting him, for having two generations of Jeon die under his command. _It’s not your fault_ , he wishes he could say, _I just don’t think I ever knew what I was doing_. 

“You’re a worse man than I thought you could ever be,” the intruder says, voice thick with disgust. “I do this for the memory of—”

The sentence remains forever unfinished. Toppling like a puppet, a force pushes Wonwoo forward, catapulting him into the wall. He spins around in an attemptto regain his footing and can’t quite believe the sight of sunshine hair, contrasted with silver steel.

There are statues of warrior angels in the North. Wonwoo has never seen them. His parents always spoke about taking him someday, and time had run out before the opportunity came. He asked Zhengting a few days ago what they looked like and his eyes had glinted with joy. “They’re absolutely incredible, Your Highness. They are massive, soaring into the sky. Each statue has wings, and each statue has a sword in its hand. Gazing upon them makes you feel like a guardian looks after you.”

Wonwoo has never gone to the North, has never seen these statues, but doesn’t think he needs to anymore. Not after taking one look at Jun. There’s no trace of emotion on his face, nothing disrupts his singular focus. A single strand of hair is displaced across his forehead. The intruder is upon the ground, eyes wild with fear and surprise across an unrecognizable face. He attempts to reach for his sword. His grip manages a few inches across the floor before Jun steps on his hand, entirely unaffected by the resulting scream.

And just like those statues, Jun says nothing. Not even as he plunges the sword downwards. Wonwoo stares, unblinkingly. A lifetime of violence has left him immune to the sight, can’t feel anything more than adrenaline through his veins. “Jun,” Wonwoo breathes.

Blood stains his hands. Jun lifts his head, a slow guided path, and gazes at Wonwoo. “Your Highness.”

“Jun,” Wonwoo repeats. The effort of words is a burst of pain in his neck. Tentatively, he swipes a hand across. His skin is coated in red. Hurt floods through him like a river.

With no regard to the corpse on the floor, Jun nears closer. “Are you okay, Your Highness?”

“I’m fine,” Wonwoo says. And he is. The cut is long, bleeds profusely, but he’ll survive. It’s not deep enough for true concern.

“You need to go to the infirmary as soon as possible. I will speak with Minghao and personally investigate every single one of the servants who have come from Camellia Court. I will report to your Captain of the Guard of the events that occurred.” He speaks in orders. He speaks like he’s Wonwoo’s knight.

All Wonwoo can do is nod in response. He finds absolutely no fault in that course of action. Jun always was so level-headed in a crisis.

Something like shame crosses Jun’s face. “I’m sorry I killed him. I realize we should have questioned him. Find out how he infiltrated the castle. Who he works for." He inclines his head. "I apologize, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Wonwoo finds himself more speechless than when he had a sword crushing his breath. Jun takes another step closer. Reaches a hand out, delicately traces underneath the laceration marking Wonwoo’s neck.

“I told you once that your Kingdom would not survive another loss,” he says. “I meant that.” Jun’s breath is so close, Wonwoo can feel the heat radiating off of him. His eyes are intense.

“I’m okay,” Wonwoo whispers.

“Remember what I said afterwards too?”

He nods. Wonwoo remembers once he could look at Jun and know exactly what he was thinking. It hasn't been this way for a very long time. This is familiar though, this expression. It's how Jun used to look at him when he was about to kiss him.

But the reverie snaps.

“Let me find Crown Prince Xu,” Jun steps back abruptly. “Can you go to the infirmary yourself?”

“Yes,” Wonwoo replies .

In a different lifetime, the man known as Junhui swore an oath to protect him. Wonwoo wonders whether the man known as Jun has similar ideals.

🏹

“You have to let me accompany the siege,” Wonwoo demands, angry tears rolling down his face. He pulls Junhui down to his height by the fabric of his shirt. A button pops off, rolls down down _down_ the steps of the throne pedestal. “You can’t expect me to wait here while everyone else is out there!”

“That’s exactly what I expect, my King,” Junhui replies, voice as even as possible, maintaining stability as he’s being shaken.

“I _hate_ when you call me that.”

“It’s your title. You need to get used to it.” His tone is not unkind—rather it’s sympathetic. Junhui is trying his utmost to maintain his calm demeanor, trying to ground Wonwoo into reality. 

“I’m not King. The King is my father.” It’s a simple sentence, but the mere act of verbalizing it drains Wonwoo of that momentary viritol. He releases Junhui, slumps into his throne, his head in his hands. The world feels far too loud even in this empty room. He wishes his father would walk in and laugh at his son sitting in his seat tell him to hop off, and that he’ll take care of this whole mess.

No one enters the throne room. They’re alone.

He feels a warm touch on his shoulder and looks up. Junhui is radiant. It hurts. “Your Highness, it’s okay. I’ve assembled a powerful force. We are grateful for your offer to bear arms, but you have far more important things to do that dispatch a few bandit camps.” 

“Is it because I’m not good enough?" Wonwoo demands. "It’s my parents that died, I should be allowed to go with. I'm the best marksman in the Kingdom, ask Seungcheol, he’ll tell you it’s true.”

“I don’t dispute that for a moment, Your Highness,” Junhui relents. “And you know it’s nothing to do with ability.”

“Then _why_?” he begs for understanding and ends up finding it in Junhui's eyes before he even speaks.

“Our land has lost our King and our Queen in the same cruel twist of fate,” Junhui’s voice is somber. “We are _all_ grieving. If something were to happen to you… it’s unthinkable. The Kingdom would not survive another loss.”

And then, Junhui gazes away in shame and whispers: “And neither would I.”

Wonwoo’s vision turns glassy. Vulnerability has never been something associated with Junhui and Wonwoo won't let his knight suffer anymore. He nods, finally. “Go, then. Don’t leave a single one of them alive.”

Junhui kneels. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“And Junhui? Come back to me,” Wonwoo says through gritted teeth. “That’s an order.” 

🏹

The Queen had planted the first orange tree on the castle ground on Wonwoo’s first birthday. Instead of a traditional celebration, she brought forth the fruit from the Cedarwood Grounds. She planted eighteen trees in total. Seungcheol told this story many times to Wonwoo, said that his mother had soaked her dress through with sweat and had dirt under her nails that lasted for days. She was adamant, however, to bring those oranges here. Seungcheol always smiled at this story. Eighteen may have been planted but not as many remained—their numbers dwindled throughout the years. Six never sprouted at all. Four died in winter. Disease ran rampant and took out six more.

Two remain, and Wonwoo stares at them now. It’s hard to fully enjoy the view when there are a group of girls rehearsing a dance nearby. Tzuyu leads them in perfect unison, twisting and twirling around. Their performance at the engagement will certainly be a highlight. Wonwoo feels his own Kingdom lacking in their own decorum. They don’t dance around here. Engagements are an excuse to get drunk—weddings moreso.

Minghao had requested Wonwoo’s presence at their rehearsal. “They’re very talented. Jieqiong’s pride, she taught them herself,” he said with that moony-eyed look that always crosses his face when he speaks about her, “It would be wonderful if you could bestow them with your company.”

It was a way to make up for the assassin incident, naturally. An attempt to get Wonwoo’s good graces through offers of tea and watching pretty girls dance around a tree. Wonwoo finds it so unnecessary. He told Minghao that he didn’t blame him—even when Jeonghan told him he shouldn’t.

“We both know Minghao doesn’t want to kill you. But make him think you’re suspicious. Make him eager to prove himself,” Jeonghan had suggested, a hand against his forehead, looking out of place visiting the infirmary. Felt wrong to even consider it. This assassin was opportunistic, no affiliation to Minghao’s court in the slightest. So Wonwoo did not follow Jeonghan’s advice. He wasn’t following his advice a lot recently.

“Are you enjoying the show, Your Highness?” Minghao pats his knee, bringing him out of his daydream. He points towards a woman with plaited hair. “Elkie is an incredible force of nature. She’s a skilled acrobat — _archer_ , too.”

Elkie is enraptured in her performance, each movement she makes carefully calculated, exposing her natural grace. She’s beautiful, incredibly so, and Wonwoo can admire that. It’s when Minghao continues to rattle off not only her individual achievements but that of her family, Wonwoo becomes suspicious.

“Crown Prince Xu, are you trying to set me up on a date?” Wonwoo says, unable to find a more diplomatic phrase.

Minghao’s smile doesn’t falter. “I merely think that you deserve to sample our hospitality in all senses of the word. She’s a wonderful girl, and I think you’d like each other.”

“Your kindness is noted,” Wonwoo says, “but I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

Elkie certainly is beautiful and there is something to be said about uniting the two Courts, particularly in such a time as this, with the engagement overhead. Jeonghan would say it’s an excellent idea. Would draw up a courtship ritual right there and then, arrange for dinner at eight followed by passionate lovemaking at nine. But it’s hard for Wonwoo to admire Elkie when all he sees when he looks above is the orange trees that remind him of Jun.

“Can’t blame me for trying, can you?” Minghao says, nudges his arm. “I’ve been a lot more cheerful ever since I started courting Jieqiong.”

Wonwoo tilts his head to the side. “Do you think I’m unhappy, Crown Prince Xu?”

“I think you could be happier,” Minghao says simply. They continue to watch in silence. The statement cuts deeper than Wonwoo would have liked.

Tzuyu finishes with a flourish, bows low, and leads her dancers away. They maintain their perfect poise the entire time. Mingaho claps heartily, rises to his feet. “You’ll forgive me if I leave you now? I should let Jieqiong know their progress. She wanted to see for herself but she had a dress fitting to attend to.”

Wonwoo inclines his head. If Minghao’s so keen on calling him friend, they can drop the other unnecessary decorum, like standing up out of his seat every time they enter or leave a room. It’s so much effort after all. With his newfound privacy, he can admire the garden in peace. He walks forward, lets his hand brush the leaves of the orange trees. Flowers bloom above him, radiating white. He smiles.

“A week or two more and the fruit will be ripe.” Jun emerges from the trees, his expression contemplative. “What happened to the other trees? There used to be eight, did there not?”

Wonwoo’s smile doesn’t fade, even while talking about the death of his beloved orange trees. “Disease. Wiped out six of them a few years ago. We tried saving one of them but there was no point. The fruit it bared was so sour. Used the wood to make a particularly fine rocking horse.”

Jun pouts, observing the tree cover ahead. “That’s unfortunate.”

“I didn’t know you were here,” Wonwoo says after a moment.

“I usually follow the Crown Prince,” he says, “I don’t always need to be seen, however.”

When he was Wonwoo’s knight, he never left his side. But perhaps that’s because he was never _just_ Wonwoo’s knight. Unlike previous times, however, Jun doesn’t seem uncomfortable with the proximity between them. In fact, he comes closer, right up to him.

“There’s an orange,” he says, gazing up, seemingly unaware that if he took one step more he’d fall right into Wonwoo’s arms. “Above the branches.”

Wonwoo follows the line of sight. “First of the season,” he gasps. “Oh that’s wonderful.”

Jun doesn’t hesitate. He jumps upwards, wrapping his arm around the branch and pulls it downward. Plucks the orange using his other hand. Leaves scatter when he releases his grip. It’s a small thing, really, not entirely spherical, not entirely monochromatic either, and the ones here are never as good as the ones at the Grounds—but it’s enough to have one.

He digs his nail in, peels the skin off in one swift moment. Tucks it in the side of his vest. In a single decisive movement, he splits the fruit, hands the half to Wonwoo. He accepts it without thinking, but once it’s in his grasp, he can’t stop staring at it.

“Come on then.” Jun’s words are ever so slightly garbled on account of the partially-chewed chunks in his mouth. “It’s not the tastiest, but it’s certainly edible.”

It’s hard for Wonwoo to explain that his stillness has nothing do with the flavour of orange in his hand and everything to do with the action of gifting it to him. Instead, he says nothing. He puts the first segment to his lips, wincing at the sour taste. It becomes enjoyable a moment later.

“How are you recovering?” Jun asks with a practised kind of nonchalance.

“I’m fine,” Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “I told you it wasn’t serious.” The physician would certainly disagree but it’s not like Seungkwan could have heard all the way out here.

“Could have been,” Jun says, and Wonwoo has no response to that.

Jun devours another segment. “I didn’t know him. No one does. Just another bandit. Followed the carriages that came from Camellia Court, snuck in during the chaos.”

“He claimed he was descended from the same group that murdered my parents.”

“Then I have no sympathy for him, and my only regret was I did not extinguish that particular flame enough for no embers to remain,” Jun replies. He’s always been unforgiving when it comes to the bandit camps.

It wasn’t an ending the King and Queen deserved. They meeting in the nearby sovereign city ended early, travelled home through the familiar woods. Bandits hijacked the carriage, killed everyone they could get their hands on, robbed them blind. It was one of their own kind who reported the crime, eyes haunted, hands red as he whispered, “ _We didn’t know it was them until it was too late_ ”. Wonwoo remembers that Seungcheol had to hold him back from clawing the man’s skin from bone.

Grief had to settle before Wonwoo understood the injustice of it all. It wasn’t just that he lost them, it was that they were slain among the trees, like they were wild deer hunted for pelt. And he’d trained for revenge, his archery becoming peerless. But of course, he never went. He sent his Junhui instead and waited for his victory.

“ _When you return, come to me first. Before anyone else. Tell me that you succeed_ ,” Wonwoo had said.

And Junhui had. He’d returned, beaten and bloodied. Knelt down on unsteady feet and pressed his lips against Wonwoo’s hand, and spoke of the eradication of every single bandit in the entire woods. And that was when Wonwoo grabbed him by the collar and kissed him. He always remembers that.

“I had thought we were free of bandits,” Wonwoo says, more to himself. “I thought we could put the King and Queen’s memories to rest and attempt to move on.”

“The past has a nasty habit of coming back to haunt us,” Jun says. He pauses, as if he almost says something else, but seems to think better of it. “I’ve spoken to your guards. Such a slip-up will never occur again.” His gaze drops to the healing scar on Wonwoo’s neck. “You were so calm when I saw you. How?”

Wonwoo chews another segment of the orange as he attempts to disentangle his thoughts. “I wondered if perhaps if I deserved whatever was coming.”

Jun’s eyes widen, concern vivid in them. “How can you say that, Your Highness? That’s not true in the slightest and…” he struggles to find the words, almost rendered speechless. “A bandit, no less? They took everything from you, Your Highness.”

“Not everything,” Wonwoo says, looking straight at Jun. Some was given away willingly, after all.

“Don’t ever think anything like that again,” Jun commands. “You can’t afford to. You have a Kingdom to run.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d care, Jun,” Wonwoo says.

“What an incorrect assumption to make,” he says, so quietly Wonwoo might have almost missed it. Jun raises his arm, lets his fingers brush over the scar. He can feel Wonwoo’s Adam’s apple rise and fall. “Be careful in future.” His hand moves down to the faint bruises that remain, still in the pattern of his grip. “I’ll be careful too.”

His touch will always be familiar, will always feel natural. “I told you, I’m okay.”

“That’s not good enough. This was too close a call. If this is what ‘ _okay’_ is, it’s not.” Jun sighs, exasperated but with an unmistakable hint of fondness. “How did you survive this long without me?”

“I’m sor—” 

He’s silenced. Jun’s hand is against Wonwoo’s mouth, aborting his apology. “Don’t,” he says. “Please don’t.” When Wonwoo nods, Jun still doesn’t release him. His stare is unflinching.

“I used to have this recurring thought that, despite everything, you’d be safe here. I can’t believe you felt the need to prove me wrong when I could see it,” Jun says. His eyes have that twinkle they only do when he’s joking. “Don’t be so petty in future.”

Deprived of speech, Wonwoo can only roll his eyes.

“You’re breathing particularly fast,” Jun comments. It’s meant as gentle mockery but it appears at that same moment he notices the flush on Wonwoo’s cheeks, the intensity of his gaze. As someone who has frequently driven Wonwoo to this state, he’s familiar with the look of desire.

Jun finally releases his hand, but it hovers there for a moment. Hesitates. His gaze drops lower. Lets his thumb trace over his lips. “Sticky,” he whispers by way of explanation. Warm, Jun is always so warm.

The movement dangles in the air between them, as if daring something more.

Jun blinks. Steps back. “I should go back to my Prince.”

Wonwoo would ask him to stay, but he’s not his anymore, hasn’t been for a very long time. 

🏹

"So I'm too young to decide who I want to fuck, but I'm plenty old enough to run an entire Kingdom?" Wonwoo counters. Junhui laughs so loud, unable to stop himself pressing his forehead against Wonwoo's. The sound reverberates in the tunnel—above, they can hear the audience loud in the stands, and in the distance, they can see the light coming from the arena. They don’t have much time before the next round, but Wonwoo insisted upon seeing him andpulled him into this long-forgotten entrance to the main grounds while everyone else sets up the targets.

"You're so much. I can’t believe you’d think about that at a time like this," Junhui says, his eyes twinkling. “Don’t you have a tournament to focus on?”

“Aren’t we all glad we have a monarch able to do multiple tasks at once?” Wonwoo replies, leans into kiss from under Junhui’s jaw, feels when his laugh passes through his throat. “We should weaponize this skill truly, set me up at the frontlines of every battle.”

“Not if you’re going to be kissing anyone else on enemy lines,” Junhui replies. “Should you not be with your instructors, going over some last minute tips?”

“I don’t need to,” Wonwoo snorts. “You’ve seen my performance so far.”

The sun blazes outside, and even if he has to periodically wipe the sweat off his brow, his arrows have flown true since the first round. He couldn’t even pretend to be concerned.

Jun’s laughter is light and airy. ”Your confidence is admirable.”

“I need to impress you after all.” 

Threading his fingers through Wonwoo’s hair, Junhui’s voice softens. "You always do. You always _are_ impressive."

Wonwoo loves the slope of Junhui's nose, runs his finger along it and smiles. "So tell me, Junhui, what do I deserve when I win this tournament?" His other hand is around Junhui's waist.

This is possession. This is when you own vast acres of land by birth and you own one man through the bond forged in your blood.

Junhui's breath is heavy. He leans closer, voice husky. "You can have me," he says. "Everything." This feels more intimate than kissing. This feels more intimate than even the act he describes, just hearing Junhui say these words is igniting a fire.

To have everything he wants, just the _idea_ of it is enough to make Wonwoo feel dizzy. "Really? Are you sure?"

“If you want me, my King, you can have me,” Junhui says. Simply. Wholly. Wonwoo wants him to be so close that he can feel his heartbeat. There are too many layers of armour in the way for that, and he has to be satisfied with just the sight of Jun’s flushed cheeks and the promise of later.

“And do you want me?” Wonwoo says, unsure, less like the confident King he was moments ago.

Junhui’s hand caresses the side of Wonwoo’s jaw. “I would die for you, my Lord.” His fingers map a path along his neck. “But I’d prefer pleasing you instead.”

Fuck. Wonwoo wants him right here, right now. Damn the tournament, damn the Kings waiting outside, damn the crowds, the only person that matters here is Junhui. The only thing that keeps him from saying exactly that is the terms of their agreement. After all, he doesn’t deserve Junhui yet. He will though, soon. He just has to fire one arrow. “We have a deal?” Wonwoo says.

“If you win.”

“ _When_ I win.”


	2. Interlude

"Kyulkyung."

"Junhui." 

It's strange to both speak and hear names that are rarely used. They stare at each other: Kyulkyung's piercing blue against Junhui's warm brown. 

"I heard rumours," she says. "I never imagined it would actually be you." 

She sweeps her fringe to the side. She scopes out her surroundings but when it seems safe, she sits down. Inclines her hand towards the teapot. “Can I serve you, Knight?”

“You don’t—” Junhui falters. “You don’t need to call me that.” They don’t use titles for knights in this court.

“Then allow me to pour you a cup in apology,” she says. She’s so delicately built, it seems her wrists would snap in a cold frost. 

"I take it you remember me," Junhui replies, somewhat a joke as he accepts the cup from her hands. 

She frowns. "I do. Of course I do, we lived at the Grounds together,” she blows on her own cup. “I have two distinct memories of you. The one is where you’re quite young and you’re sweeping the leaves in Autumn, making such an annoying noise. The other is more recent. It’s of you picking two oranges. You ate the one, and kept the other." 

To his enemies, they remember Junhui as the man who slit the throats of the Jeon family’s murderers, the man who slaughtered entire camps in one night. It's strange to hear someone whose opinion of him is entirely different, based on trivialities like sweeping leaves. No, not strange. Just unfamiliar. Junhui wasn't born a machine of death, after all, he just had to become one. 

"I remember you too," he says. "Your aunt… the Duchess, she worried for you tremendously when you left." 

Kyulkyung gazes at her hands. "I think we all know when we need to leave. My call just came early."

Junhui disagrees and keeps it to himself. “Did you come here alone?”

“I was accompanied by a family friend, but,” she gazes around, “Yes. I’ve been alone. It’s okay, really, I have a good life here. I enjoy serving the Lady Song.” 

“She’s a good Queen,” Junhui says, and he does mean it. The Queen is a wonderful woman, soft-spoken and beautiful, but when he looks at her, he remembers how much he misses his Queen, his Queen Jeon, with her cattish smirks and painted nails, a joke always on her lips, thinking of sneaking off to the gardens instead of attending a meeting.

“It took me a long time to pick up the language,” Kyulkyung says, “If you ever need help, tell me.” 

Junhui feels a swell of emotion. “That’s rather kind of you, Kyulkyung. I can’t ask that of you though. You have your own duties to attend to.”

“No, no, it’s fine. We have to look out for each other here, after all. We’re all we’ve got,” she sips her tea. “Has the Crown Prince been good to you?”

Junhui’s grip tightens. “He doesn’t like to look at me. I think he’d get rid of me if he knew how.”

“Don’t say that,” Kyulkyung says, a frown growing. “Crown Prince Xu is a wonderful man and I know he’ll appreciate a knight as fine as you. He must know that you’ll need time to adjust and is gracing you with that. He’s merciful.”

“Have you ever spoken to him?” 

She falters. “I can’t say I have.”

“Then you cannot possibly pretend to understand what goes inside his head,” Junhui says. “But perhaps that’s true for all royalty. Their minds are an impenetrable fortress that the rest of us can never hope to comprehend. I’ll never know what I did to deserve the Crown Prince’s ire, but I can’t say I know what I did to deserve my King’s—” he cuts himself, clamps his lips shut. 

She’s kind enough to allow him a moment to recover, pretends to be occupied in stirring her tea. When she looks up, however, she says: “How did you end up here?”

“My King bet me away.”

“Wonwoo?” she says in disbelief.

Years of sensibilities make Junhui gasp upon hearing his first name. “Yes. It was… Wonwoo.” He so very rarely dared to say his name. He was too afraid one day it would come out in public, and he’d never want to embarrass his King by making it seem like he allows a simple servant to call his name. There was once he can remember where he did call him Wonwoo. When Wonwoo had beckoned him to his chambers, and they started talking about armour and ended with Junhui’s back against the door of his cabinet, his neck being bit into again and again, and from his lips slipped his name. 

Junhui shakes his head of the memory. He looks up at Kyulkyung. “You heard Crown Prince Xu won the tournament, didn’t you?”

She nods. “I heard his performance was incredible to witness.”

If he closes his eyes, he sees Wonwoo firing his final arrow, and watching it soar over the target. And he remembers the only thing that went through his mind: “ _I think he missed_.” And that would have been fine, sometimes arrows miss after all, Junhui would never hold any grudges, if not for— 

“My King gave me as his prize.” He observes the look of confusion and shock in her face. Remembers it was mirrored in his own expression then.

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know,” he says, and he’s honest. He’s had days and nights to attempt to understand why and he still doesn’t. He has theories, of course. Most of them have Junhui as the problem. Perhaps he wasn’t good enough. Perhaps Wonwoo didn’t love him enough. 

Kyulkyung purses her lips. “I don’t know much about you, Junhui. But I know you’re a good knight. I know our Crown Prince will appreciate that. You’ll find a home here. I know you will.”

She crosses the distance, and holds his hand tightly.

🍊 

“I have another letter from Zhengting!” Kyulkyung gushes, grabbing Junhui’s arm and dragging him into the garden. She stomps over two daisies in her excitement and doesn’t even give Junhui the opportunity to check the damage. “Come on, come on, I want to hear where he’s been.”

“When is he supposed to be back?” Junhui asks as he gets deposited onto the bench. Zhengting has become a sort of mythical figure to Junhui, only being spoken of by Kyulkyung who brings him strange artefacts associated with this Zhengting. Sometimes it’s a rose petal from a distant land, sometimes it’s a sketch of a building, sometimes it’s a shell that smells like salt. 

“He’s in no rush,” Kyulkyung shrugs. “He likes the freedom, I guess. I miss him so much. You’ll like him, everyone does. He’s very charming.”

Junhui supposes he can agree with that. He’s a good letter writer as well. Kyulkyung begins to read aloud, and Junhui listens in rapture. She recounts his latest adventure of the strange beast he found in the woods, of the temple he stayed in recently, of the foreign diplomat he recently charmed into bed. 

She pulls out this month’s gift:a necklace with a silver charm. She claps in excitement, holds it out for Junhui to put it around her neck. “Oh Zhengting, it’s gorgeous. Thank you so much,” she says, as if the metal could relay the message to him. “I’ll have to write him back as soon as I can. Hopefully he’ll still be in the area and I can give him my gratitude.” 

“I’ve always wanted to travel like he does,” Junhui says before he can stop himself.

Kyulkyung lifts her gaze from her necklace to his eyes. “Really? I wouldn’t have expected that of you.”

He feels self-conscious all of a sudden. “Yes. I have always wondered what the rest of the world is like. I’ve heard so many stories of warrior angel statues in the North and wild forests in the West. I’ve wanted to experience it myself, someday.”

“That’s a beautiful thing to want,” Kyulkyung says. Her smile is beautiful. “I know one day you will.” She folds the letter up, and leans back in the bench, her hands neatly folded in her lap. “Tell me where you’ll go first.”

🍊 

Minghao’s words are slurred when he addresses him. “Where’s Tao?” 

“He’s gone with the rest of the men to hunt the last of the deer,” Junhui replies. Then bows. “Your Highness.” He doesn’t miss Minghao’s eye roll.

“What about Yanan? Tell him to come here.”

“He’s with the men as well, Your Highness.” It’s honestly strange being spoken to directly by Minghao. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. Usually he’s in the crowd, on guard somewhere, certainly not speaking to him on a individual basis. But the men have gone out hunting, and left Junhui with the job of keeping watch over their Prince. 

“It’s just you, then?” 

“Just me,” Junhui says quietly. 

“Your name again?” 

“Junh—” he hesitates. “Jun.” 

Minghao nods, leaning back. He takes a swig from the flask of wine next to him Exhales in pleasure when he swallows it. “I remember you, Jun. I always remembered you.”

“I’m not from here,” Jun says.

“No, it’s not because of that. It’s because of how you look.” Minghao’s cheekbones are illuminated in the firelight. “I remember your face, because it’s one of the most striking ones I’ve ever seen.”

Junhui halts. Stares at his Crown Prince in disbelief. 

“I’ve had to avoid you for my own good,” Minghao sighs. “Wouldn’t want to upset my father by shacking up with a knight, after all. Still, since we’re alone, have a seat by the fire. It’s cold standing out there and it’s not like anyone’s planning on attacking me.”

It’s an order, really, and Junhui obeys. He sits opposite Minghao, gazes at him over the glow of flames. 

“I’ve always wondered why your King made you leave,” he says. “I have a few ideas.” He holds out his fingers, ticking off his thumb. “The first is that you’re secretly dying and Wonwoo didn’t want to watch you wither away. I somehow don’t think it’s that though. The physician reports you’re in excellent health.”

Junhui keeps silent, waits for Minghao to continue.

“The second is that you have some sort of classified information on him, you saw something you weren’t supposed to,” Minghao counts off his second finger. “But that also doesn’t make sense! Why give you to me? What if I pry the information out of you? So it can’t be that.”

Minghao inhales, taps his third finger. “The last one is the most perplexing one, and perhaps the most likely. Maybe he doesn’t like you.”

It would be kinder if Minghao had snapped his neck, Junhui thinks. 

“You’re such a brilliant knight that surely there must be something more than just… he doesn’t _like_ you,” Minghao continues. “But I can’t fathom another reason. I think that’s the most plausible. Do _you_ have an explanation for me?”

“I didn’t deserve to be there,” Junhui answers instantly. “I was the problem.”

Minghao nods slowly. “Hf you say so. It feels like it was so soon, but it’s been months hasn’t it? Good day. Good tournament. Nice that I won. I didn’t really want to though.”

It’s like his throat turns into ice. “What?”

“Pity seems too harsh a word,” Minghao frowns. “But I wanted the young King to win as much as he did. He had so much more to gain. But I suppose that’s the sad thing about life, that even though everything was suggesting he would win, his arrow still misfired. You know, it’s a fact, sometimes arrows just miss. There was nothing that could be done.”

That’s worse, really. This idea that Minghao gained _nothing_ from the tournament that took Junhui's life away. “I’m not wanted here either, then,” Junhui says and finds himself reaching out for Minghao’s wine before he can stop himself. If he gets lashes for this, so be it, but he can’t handle the weight of his own mind.

“I never said that,” Minghao says, eyes glittering. “Drink up, I’ve got more.”

🍊 

“Would you call me Jieqiong from now on?” 

Junhui gazes at her with a mixture of sadness and understanding. “Is that what you’d prefer?”

“You’re the only one who still calls me Kyulkyung, honestly,” she says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “And I like it, I do, but I think I need to be honest with myself and who I am. I’m building a life here. I need to accept that. And that means accepting my name.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” Junhui replies. She’s wearing Zhengting’s necklace and it matches the silver bangles she wears as well. She looks prettier than usual today—but she always does look pretty. 

“Thank you for not making a big deal out of it, Junhui,” she says quietly. “And quite truthfully, thank you for being here for me. It’s been easier with you.”

Affection grows in his heart. “It’s been easier with you here, too. I don’t know how I’d survive otherwise.”

“I’m named after a banshee, actually,” she says, fiddling with her necklace. “I can’t imagine _why_ my parents chose that name, I never got the chance to ask, but if I had to take a guess, maybe I used to be very loud as a baby.”

Jun smiles widely. “Oh, that’s just precious.”

“It’s just an assumption,” Jieqiong says, shoulders lowered. “They died when I was a young girl. They were ambassadors to the old King Jeon’s court. They always used to stay at the Cedarwood Grounds, they became good friends with the Duke and Duchess Jeon.” 

The Duchess Jeon was the most wonderful woman, short but with a fiery temper. Her husband was a stern leader, kept the knights perpetually tired and obedient, but a good man. Jun misses them. He still remembers the last time he saw the Duchess, she made him and Wonwoo a bowl of soup, and then they settled together under the stars and—

“They took you in?” Jun says out loud, forcing his thoughts to derail themselves.

She nods. “They were very sweet. They taught me so much, introduced me to their family, gave me a name so I wouldn’t stand out. I don’t think it helped much; I was always an outsider.”

Jun is uncomfortably familiar with this. Sometimes he feels the phantom pressure of a missing syllable from his name.

“When a chance came for me to go back to the court, here, I jumped at it. I thought I’d just stay here for a year or two. And then the King and Queen were murdered. And later, my guardians died too. I am sort of stuck here now.”

“I avenged their death,” Jun says, mind flashing with blood and steel. “I rode into the woods and cut down till I couldn’t distinguish man from tree. They didn’t deserve that. I loved the King and Queen so much.” 

Jieqiong seems perturbed by the violence. Jun forgets she’s not used to it. “But you were their son’s knight, right?”

“Wonwoo? Yes,” Jun says, and has to stop himself from saying, _but I loved him more_. 

“We both have had a lot of difficult circumstances leading us here,” Jieqiong sums up.

That’s certainly one way to put it. Jun exhales, tries to forget all about him, all about the court. He’s here now, he needs to focus on what is real and true: that he is Jun, he serves the Crown Prince Xu, and Jieqiong is next to him, a beautiful shy smile on her face.

“I’m glad we found each other.” And she reaches forward, and kisses Junhui. Her lips are soft, and she smells strongly of jasmine. It’s the first time Junhui has kissed someone in a year, and he’s overwhelmed. He tilts his head back, inhales deeply. 

“Jieqiong,” he whispers. “I don’t think I can be this for you.”

Her smile falters. “Oh.”

“I don’t… with women.”

A blush spreads across her cheeks. “I do apologize for making such a fool of myself. I’ve clearly misread certain things.” 

Junhui wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all but knows it will just make her even more embarrassed. “I think that there will be someone who could love you in the abundance you deserve.” 

“I hope he has a house,” Jieqiong says, more mumbling to herself. “And a garden with flowers.”

“I bet he’ll have the most beautiful garden in the Kingdom,” he says.

🍊 

What Jun has discovered is that the more he kisses Minghao, the more he doesn’t have to think about kissing Minghao. He can just engage in the physical pleasure of the act and not have to undo the accompanying moral ties that would tell him not to. 

“ _Fuck_ , Jun,” Minghao swears, and Jun can feel he’s close. Sucks harder, feels Minghao shake underneath him. It’s intoxicating bringing such a composed Prince like Minghao to this state, and it’s been weeks of this already but Jun can’t get enough. There’s a pull on his hair, and Jun is encouraged. 

Minghao repeats his name again and again. His release is hot in Jun’s mouth, and he spits it out this time, just because he wants to kiss Minghao and he knows Minghao doesn’t like the taste. He’s wonderfully pliable now, and eagerly reaches for Jun, pulls him down. Jun swallows down his resulting moan. 

“Jun, you’re amazing,” he whispers. “Fuck, I’m never going to be able to do another patrol without you from now on.”

That suits Jun perfectly. Patrol is once a week and, frankly, that’s just become something to look forward to now. “Would you like some water, Your Highness?”

“Don’t move,” Minghao mutters, rolling him onto his side. “Let’s just sleep. Someone will wake us when it’s daylight.”

“I can’t sleep next to you, Your Highness.” 

“Who’s going to stop you?” Minghao replies, and Jun has no answer to that, and lets himself lie down in the comfort of his bunk. Being a Prince means a private room, and Jun’s had trouble sleeping in the dormitories with the other knights. 

“What are we doing tomorrow?” Minghao asks.

“Your father wanted to take you and your horse out riding in the morning.” Jun runs the events over in his mind. “Dinner with your family and the General Xukun.”

“Come with me?”

“Riding or for dinner?”

“Both,” Minghao says. 

A smile blooms across Jun’s face. “Yes, my Lord.”

Darkness crosses Minghao’s face and he hesitates.

“I’m sorry,” he says, abruptly. “About the past. I know I didn’t treat you very well when you came here. I was being foolish, I didn’t want to acknowledge that someone else could train a better knight than anyone here—and I didn’t want to think about how attracted I was to you either.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Jun says. It feels like a lifetime ago. He can’t imagine being parted from Minghao’s side, let alone recalling a time when Minghao would intentionally avoid him. 

“I wanted you for so long,” Minghao says, running a finger across Jun’s jaw. “I tried to pretend I didn’t, but…” He sighs. “You do know this is temporary, though?”

Jun forces his teeth together. “I’m aware.”

“I have to look out for my family,” Minghao says. “I know you understand.”

“I do.”

Minghao seems lighter now that he’s gotten that off his chest. “You’re so wonderful, Jun. I wonder how your King could have ever let you go.”

“I don’t think he deserved me,” Jun says.

🍊 

It’s strange seeing Zhengting with a physical form. He’s not quite how Jun imagined him to be: he’s taller than expected, more beautiful too but he’s got the sparkle in the corner of his eyes that make him seem exactly how his letters are. He takes up most of the space on the bench, demanded the spot between Jieqiong and Jun.

“The flowers are radiant,” Zhengting says, twirling a cut rose between his fingers. “The gardeners are doing an excellent job.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Jieqiong says, leaning into Zhengting’s side, her arms wrapped around him. “Oh I’ve missed you terribly, you can’t leave again.”

“I don’t intend to!” Zhengting claps his hands together. “I’ve been clawing my way into the favours of the Crown Prince. I hope he’ll induct me into his advisors some day. It’ll make my father happy, at least.”

“I’ll hope for the best,” Jieqiong assures him. 

“And your friend,” Zhengting says, turning to face Jun. “You’re a bit quiet, aren’t you?”

Jieqiong rolls her eyes. “You’ve only just met. Give him some time to warm up to you, Zhengting.”

“I’m merely remarking my interest,” he says. “You’ve made quite a good life for yourself here. My sources tell me you’re the Crown Prince’s favourite.”

Panic builds in Jun’s mind. “What else do your sources tell you?”

Zhengting constructs a coy smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“I’m asking very nicely.”

“Well, Jun, it’s nothing secret. It just takes a matter of observing him for a few minutes before he inevitably calls upon you. You’ve made it into his inner circle, even as an outsider to the Court. I find it interesting, but maybe that’s just me.” Zhengting yawns. “It is fascinating. You’re from the North, aren’t you?”

Jun nods. He is. As much as he rarely even thinks of it, he is.

“Right, right. And…” Zhengting closes his eyes, thinks for a moment and then taps the side of his head. “You were the King Jeon’s personal envoy, right?”

“No,” Junhui says, blinking rapidly. “I was his knight.”

Zhengting frowns. He seems as if he wants to add something more, but turns on his side and pouts. “Jieqiong, I’m hungry.”

“I’m sure dinner will be served soon, you can control yourself for a few minutes,” she hits him with the corner of her scarf. “Didn’t you tell me that you fasted on a mountaintop for thirteen days during your travels?”

“That was ages ago, I’ll have you know, and it was under the influence of a monk—”

A silence falls upon them as the same time as the shadow does. 

“I do apologize for interrupting you all,” Minghao says, smiling slightly. “But I was hoping to borrow my knight for a moment?”

Jun instantly rises. Zhengting, and Jieqiong follow.

“Your Highness, it’s wonderful to see you,” Zhengting says, bowing. “I’m Zhu Zhengting—”

“I remember,” Minghao nods. “We spoke just a few moments ago. I won’t forget your name.” Zhengting seems incredibly pleased with this, a catlike grin spreading across his face. Minghao’s eyes sweep to Jieqiong—and he looks again.

“And you, my Lady?” he says.

“Jieqiong,” she replies, her gaze wide and fixed on Minghao. She looks enraptured by the sight of his face. 

“I don’t think we’ve met before,” Minghao says after a moment. 

“We have not, my Lord. I’m a handmaiden of your mother,” she says. 

“She never introduced me to you,” he says, and he’s still staring at her. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Jieqiong. I’ll remember your name too.” 

Jun feels something strange unfolding in his stomach. He taps Minghao by the elbow, quickly, discreetly. “You wanted me, my Lord?”

“Hmm?” he says, and finally tears himself away from Jieqiong. “Yes, you’re right. Come along, I’m needed at a meeting.”

Jun thought he was used to being unwanted. That it’s become something his body is used to. He knows that when he fights with a sword he feints to his left side, when it rains the joints of his elbow stiffen, and he knows that it’s always just going to feel like his heart is an anchor in his chest. 

It’s possible to move on and still miss what was left behind, of course, and Jun has grown to love the lanterns that glow in the sky here but would trade it all for the sight of an orange tree again. And he’s loyal to Minghao, he is, he’d die for him if that’s what it takes, if that’s what was ordered. 

But oh, he misses home. He misses Wonwoo even if he wishes he didn’t, even if he sometimes has dreams of rattling him back and forth until his skull shakes. This has been the hardest part of all, it’s knowing that he’ll never get an answer. He can spend hours and days trying to understand why Wonwoo bet his life, and he’ll never be able to come up with one, besides perhaps, the saddest of all: that Wonwoo just didn’t care.

🍊 

The first time he kissed Jieqiong he remembers staring in the mirror for so long his eyes began to tear up. His last kiss was everything to him, was with Wonwoo in his training room, where they were both trying to be quiet but also could not be apart, when he promised Wonwoo all of him. And then, the last time he saw Wonwoo, was moments later, staring at him as one of Minghao’s servants told him where to walk in a language he didn’t understand.

He’s not used to feeling so sorry for himself, and knows he should get up, but it’s hard to convince himself to when he knows his Prince is currently on a picnic with Jieqiong. He’s happy for them, really he is, but he can’t deny the possessive streak he’s developed when it comes to Minghao. But that’s his fault. Minghao had always said this was temporary.

Jun feels his time ticking out. He’s young now, yes, but what will happen of him in another ten years? There’s not a place in this world for him where he really belongs. The anchor in his chest threatens to sink the rest of him. 

He closes his eyes, waits for sleep to overtake him. And when he dreams, it’s of light filtered through orange trees and a boy shorter than he is, with a smile as bright as the moon. 

🍊 

It’s the first time he’s seen Jieqiong this close in months. She’s dressed in fine silken robes of cerulean and, she locks the door when she enters the room, the fabric fanning out behind her.

“My Lady,” Jun bows, and it feels strange to bow to Jieqiong, to _Kyulkyung_ of all people, but he knows what the future holds. He’s already had Minghao tell him all about the engagement he’s planning.

“Jun,” she says. “I was wondering if I could ask a favour.”

His brows furrow. “Whatever you command, I will do,” Jun says.

She shakes her head. “This isn’t an order. It’s a request.”

It’s been years since they’ve sat in the garden and spoken like equals. Jun doesn’t blame her for falling in love anymore than he can blame himself—but it still hurts to look at her sometimes and know that Minghao has found everything he’s ever wanted in one person. 

“What do you want, Jieqiong?” he says, tired. 

“I’m going to visit King Jeon,” she says. “I want you to come with me.”

Jun stares. Jieqiong is perhaps the only person in the world who truly understands the gravity of what Wonwoo has done to him. “ _Why_?”

“I won’t force you,” she says. “If you tell me no, I’ll make it seem like I didn’t want you to accompany us. You will not get reprimanded for this. This is a choice you get to make.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Why do you want me with you?” Jun says. It feels like a highly specialized torture she’s administrating, designed to hurt him the most.

“I want to go home to the Cedarwood Grounds,” she says and just saying the name of it alone fills Jun with a longing he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from. “And I don’t think your King would let me unless I had you with me.” It’s like all the carefully orchestrated persona she’s invented comes off and she stands bare. “That’s the truth of it, Jun. But I won’t do it at your expense.”

Jun closes his eyes. Thinks of red heraldry, of orange trees, of dark hair.

“I’ll go.” 


	3. Release

“I’ll write a letter then ,” Wonwoo decides. He hops off the throne immediately. His stride is fast as he navigates his way to his private study and Seungcheol struggles to keep up without flatout running. Trying to avoid pushing over the guards leaves him lagging behind, and he calls out:

“Your Highness! Wait!”

Wonwoo ignores him entirely . He locks the door as soon as he enters his study. Most of the ink is dry—he hasn’t been in here in ages, but there’s certainly enough for one simple letter. He pulls out the parchment and already hesitates on how to begin the address. He wishes for his tutor, suddenly, as much as he loathed spending time with Seunghyun, he would certainly know simple things like how to address a Crown Prince. Suppose he says ‘Your Highness’ instead of ‘Your Majesty’ and he takes it as a personal insult?

Repetitive knocking begins. “My Lord, open this door.” The doorknob rattles. “Did you lock it?”

“I’m busy, Seungcheol,” he says. He decides that he’ll go for something unembellished and replicate the same standard in his own title. Equality is the point he’ll hinge himself on in this letter, reduce his own status if that’s what needed. Bring a King down to the level of a Prince. 

“Your Highness, I need to strongly discourage you from this,” Seungcheol says through the door. His voice grows frantic.

Wonwoo’s always been bad at following instructions though, and Seungcheol knows this. It’s his fault for not being fast enough to catch him. Maybe he should spend a little more time training than praying for guidance in chapels. Wonwoo uncaps a bottle of ink, picks up the quill. Rehashes the calligraphy he learnt once and writes out, slow and precise: “ _Crown Prince Xu_ ”.

He had a conversation with that blonde student a month ago, Jeonghan. He had looked over a speech Wonwoo had attempted to write, and tore it to shreds, but in the most dignified manner. Casually dropping literary terms that get lost in Wonwoo’s mind, but one sticks out in his mind. “You must always conclude with an envoi. Bring your arguments together with clarity, summarize yourself clearly. If they don’t remember you, let them remember your envoi.”

Wonwoo proceeds to add another line at the end of the page that says:

 _“Please. I need him._ ”

“Your Highness, if you don’t open this door this very minute, I will be forced to break it apart,” Seungcheol says, his voice worryingly calm. “Do you really want that? The entire Castle will hear.”

He’s tempted to call Seungcheol’s bluff—and then he hears the sound of a force hitting the door, and he instantly calls out: “I’m coming!” It’ll go around the castle in minutes if their King breaks a door and, knowing his luck, it’ll drift to the rest of the land as well. He’s already enough of a joke ever since he lost the tournament.

He unlocks the door, pulls it open. He has the sense to take a step back immediately afterwards, just in case Seungcheol lunges forward. His face is splotchy red and the second he walks inside, he shuts the door behind him with more effort than necessary.

“Your Highness,” he says through gritted teeth, “You cannot send the Crown Prince a letter begging for your knight back. I don’t care how much you miss him. This cannot be done, you will look weak, you will look incompetent and you will dishonour this entire Court.”

“He’s more than a knight,” Wonwoo replies instantly.

“If he was, _then why did you bet him away_?”

Wonwoo can’t look him in the eye. “I’ve made a mistake.” 

“You’ve chosen an interesting time to realize that.” Seungcheol makes no attempts to hide the rage that surfaces. 

It’s rare to incur Seungcheol’s temper. He’s composed, dignified, and in all the time of watching him follow his father, he’s never seen Seungcheol angry with him. This is the third time Seungcheol has been angry with Wonwoo this year .

Guilt suffocates Wonwoo’s heart and he fixes his sight on a spot on the floor. This hurts in a different way that everything else has been hurting lately, the feeling like his heart is slowly ripping open since Junhui left. But different doesn’t always mean better. Wonwoo takes another step back.

“I’ve made a mistake,” he repeats. “But I’m trying to fix it.”

“By writing a letter,” Seungcheol clarifies. He reaches for the parchment on top of the desk, gazes at the singular line written. “This is your idea?”

He flushes. “Yes. I’ll just explain to Minghao that I should not have put Junhui in the tournament. That I’ll give him anything else he wants, he just needs to please give me my knight back.”

“My Lord, I worry you do not comprehend the significance of _anything else he wants_ ,” Seungcheol inhales. “You are a King. Crown Prince Xu will be one too. The gifts exchanged between courts are not as simple as you think and neither are the promises. What should you do if he replies? What if he writes back and says he wants the Cedarwood Grounds? Do you intend to give it to him then?”

“No,” Wonwoo instantly spits out. “No, never, I didn’t mean that! My wording is a little off but I’m still working on it.”

“And I’m not telling you not to.” Seungcheol struggles to tamp down the fury inside him. “I’m telling you to burn the entire page.”

He wasn’t always this harsh. When he was a child, Seungcheol would spare him a mint leaf every now and again. He’d always be chewing on them. He’d ruffle his hair and ask him about his day. He had become family. Along with everything that changed, it appears their relationship has to as well. Seungcheol holds nothing back when he speaks now, has made Wonwoo hold back tears in his presence.

It’s worse now. Now that he’s his knight again. Now he sees him everywhere, always watching him, always judging.

“Minghao would never ask me something like that,” Wonwoo says—and falters. “Would he?”

“Never give him the opportunity to,” Seungcheol answers decisively. “I understand you miss Junhui. But you need to accept that this is out of your hands.”

“No.” Wonwoo crosses his arms. “It’s not. I’m going to fix this.”

“You _can’t_ ,” Seungcheol says, and his voice is so loud, it rattles the ink jars.

Wonwoo shakes his head. “I’m not accepting that. I’m getting Junhui back. I don’t care what I have to do, it’s fine, I’ll give him anything.”

“What don’t you understand?” Seungcheol says. “Wonwoo, you _lost_. Accept it. You lost in front of representatives of all the Kingdoms and you need to show that you’re not a prickly loser.”

Wonwoo’s eyes narrow. He enunciates his words slowly. “Are you calling your King a prickly loser?”

“You only like using that title when I’m here, when it’s advantageous to you,” Seungcheol says. “I’ve heard you chastise Junhui from calling you that.”

The idea that Seungcheol had been privy to a private conversation between them sets him off and Wonwoo takes a step forward. He’s not quite Seungcheol’s height but he’s close. But it wouldn’t have mattered. What Wonwoo has is something that can only be cultivated from being bred and born to royalty, his aura of dominance that fills each room he’s in. Naturally people will bow to him, they know if they don’t, he has the capability to step on their spines until they do. 

“You’re making a lot of accusations on topics you know nothing of,” Wonwoo replies. “Seungcheol, I’d advise you to watch your tone. I’ve admitted my mistake. I intend to fix it. I don’t see where the problem is.”

“The problem is that you can’t see more than what’s in front of you,” Seungcheol spits . He raises his hand.

For a moment, Wonwoo really does think Seungcheol is going to hit him. He flinches, as any human would. Body tensed, expecting it, bracing for the pain. But the force never comes, Seungcheol’s hand remains hovering above.

Wonwoo grabs hold of his hand, gripping it so tightly, he can feel it shake. Digs his nails into the flesh, hope it hurts. “You must have a very good reason for attempting to lay hands on your King,” Wonwoo says, voice icy. He’s lost one of his knights. As far as he’s concerned, he can lose another. 

“I do. Your parents told me to raise you to become a King with dignity. If you wanted to spit on their graves so badly, continue as you currently do. ” Seungcheol rips his hand away. Compared to hearing what he said, the slap would have been less painful.

Wonwoo swallows.

“They worried about you so much. They know our Kingdom is small, that we have little by way of riches, but they wanted you to be one of the greats. They wanted your name to be remembered for eternity,” Seungcheol’s breathing is heavy. “And I always thought they were correct, always tried to make sure they were, and now I’m concerned. One day, you will be remembered as a monarch who made a fool of himself in front of everyone.”

It feels like needles are being stabbed into every inch of skin he has. He steps back, but proximity doesn’t affect injuries inflicted by words.

“You know that you’re looked down upon by every monarch out there,” Seungcheol says, gestures around him. “I know you know this.”

“It’s not my fault,” Wonwoo says, and he’s aware he’s sounding like a child but can’t stop himself. “They hate me before they even know me, they already made up their minds.”

“I didn’t say it was your fault,” Seungcheol says. His breathing starts to even out. “But those are the facts. You took part in a wildly popular tournament but ultimately lost. You bet your knight and, by every rule, you are expected to forfeit him to the victor.”

“But I shouldn’t have.” Wonwoo doesn’t know when his voice got so soft. “I thought I’d win. I made a mistake.”

“I know you did. But how would it look to everyone of those kings and queens across the land if you beg Minghao for him back when you lost? When they already judge you for breathing, when all they want is to see you fail?”

Wonwoo wants to block his ears. Wants to stop hearing everything. “So, what? Am I just supposed to let him go?” 

“Your Highness, I don’t think you considered the possibility where Junhui doesn’t want to come back, ” Seungcheol says. And Wonwoo can tell that he tries to be delicate, he tries to coat his words in velvet. 

“It’s his home here,” Wonwoo says. There’s no fire left in him; all the energy has been drained. He stumbles backwards, collapses into the nearest chair, hugs his knees to his chest. “Why wouldn’t he want to come back?”

“Because you told him to leave. You forced him to.” The air is stiff. Seungcheol crouches next to Wonwoo, gazes at him. “Do you understand why you can’t write a letter, why you can’t just ask Minghao for him back? All your parents ever wanted was for you to be a King they could be proud of. This is not how to do that.”

Wonwoo’s heard a lot about the ‘burden of command’, he’s heard the term used frequently. But he feels it now. And it’s a weight on his back that cracks each and every bone of his spinal column. He feels like he’d stay on the ground forever, afraid to move even a fraction more.

“It might be hard for you to understand, but just because you’re a King doesn’t mean you always get what you want.”

“What am I supposed to do then?”

Seungcheol lets his hand rest on Wonwoo’s knee, smiles weakly at him. “Move on.” 

🏹

In another life, Wonwoo is Minghao’s best friend. Two young and exceptional royalty find their identities reflected in one another, and when Wonwoo’s parents die, it’s Minghao who holds his hair back as he throws up, choking on his own grief. It’s such a natural thing for them, their commonalities are profound, and it’s nice to have someone in the world who understands even if they cannot directly relate.

They have so many similar interests after all. If he imagines this world, when Wonwoo loses the tournament, it’s a fun game among friends, and the stakes are only as high as they wished to make it. Minghao teases him about his failure over drinks later, and Wonwoo merely rolls his eyes, while Junhui pulls him closer, nuzzles into his neck.

Reality has not manifested in this way. He is _not_ Minghao’s best friend, but as he gazes at him now, he wonders if he could have been. Almost wishes it were that way. It’s been a lot harder to hate Minghao when it’s so enjoyable to be in his company in his own way.

Minghao is on his knees, pouring tea. “I brew my own,” he says by way of explanation. “This is infused with jasmine. I hope you’ll like it, King Jeon.”

“Thank you,” Wonwoo says. In Minghao’s continued quest for forgiveness after the assassination incident, he invited Wonwoo for tea together. Wonwoo had tried to refuse as many times as he could, but belatedly realized that the sooner he got this over with, the sooner he’d be able to stop receiving Minghao’s unsubtle invitations to court Jieqiong’s girls.

“It’s sweeter than I thought it would be,” Wonwoo says contemplatively. The tea is warm down his throat. Unfamiliar but pleasant. Reminds him of a gentle breeze on a summer’s day.

“I make a very good cup,” Minghao replies, sipping his own. “My mother taught me, and she’s the best in the world, I’m certain.”

“Are your parents arriving for the engagement?” Wonwoo asks, partly wondering how they’d fit any more dignitaries in his castle. Perhaps they’d make Jeonghan sleep in the stables. That would be entertaining. 

Minghao shakes his head, bursting Wonwoo’s vision of a hay-stained Jeonghan. “Unfortunately not. The journey is far and my father is old. He’s sent us his blessing and we plan to have a smaller ceremony when we return.”

But then there’s that. It’s beyond all boundaries of stupidity that Wonwoo begrudges the fact that Minghao still has his parents in his life. He would not wish his fate on anyone, least of all someone he really is trying to befriend. He stuffs the emotion far down as he can. After all, he brought up the topic.

“I must thank you again,” Minghao says as he lifts his cup. “Jieqiong has never been happier. I know it must not have been easy for you to open your homelands to us, but it truly means everything to me and my Kingdom.”

“It was an easy decision,” Wonwoo says, more truthfully than he intends.

“The difficulty of it does not have any effect on my gratitude towards you.”

Minghao has a wonderful smile. Soothing, really. Wonwoo can quite easily forget he’s the younger one, he has such an old-fashioned demeanor. Even when they met the first time, Minghao had only been sixteen and already was more mature than Wonwoo, a literal King.

He had spent two or so years actively hating Minghao. Cursing his name under his breath, swearing up and down he’s the reason he lost his knight and his reputation is in tatters, punching mirrors imagining it’s his face in them. It’s quite strange to realize that now here Minghao is, some six years later returned, and Wonwoo cannot summon up the same emotion. He tries to recreate a different playing field. A world where their kingdoms are at war. Could he kill Minghao? Could he even want to?

No. Wonwoo regards the man sitting across from him, his black hair brushing the back of his neck , sipping his tea, gold earrings adorning him. Wonwoo could not. What replaced hatred was jealousy. He’s desperate for everything that Minghao has. A family, parents who love him, who are there to guide him and watch him grow. A partner, a fiancée who he is intrinsically bound to.

And Jun. He has Jun, and that’s what Wonwoo wants more than anything. That’s the essence of every negative emotion that lingers whenever he looks at the Crown Prince. He’d give him everything if he could have Jun back—but it’s not that simple. It never is.

“King Jeon,” Minghao says after a moment. “I realize that once, we had conflicting interests.”

This is something that needs to happen, Wonwoo thinks bitterly, they need to have this conversation. If either of them desire the friendship they dream of, it means moving past this. Wonwoo understands this is necessary, but also feels like he doesn’t have to deal with this sober. He rises to his feet. “I recall Zhengting complaining about the wine here,” he says, sliding the panel of the closet in the farthest corner of the drawing room, “Perhaps you’ll find this more to your taste.”

Minghao’s eyes sparkle.

🏹

“I never wanted it to be a competition,” Minghao says, voice slurred with alcohol. “I mean, obviously that’s exactly what it was. But King Jeon, I only ever felt _sorry_ for you. I knew that it was unfair you lost your parents so young, that you were a King at sixteen. At that age, I was still going on night hunts with my father. I could not dream of the responsibility on your shoulders. My court is so far from the rest of the world, but I heard the rumours, I heard that the nobility were criticizing you. And I thought I could help.”

“Help?” Wonwoo snorts. “How did you think you would help?”

Minghao smiles sadly. “I thought you’d win. I bet my warhorses, I thought that when you win, you’ll be the envy of all the Kingdoms. That it might make things easier for you.”

All these years, Wonwoo had imagined Minghao with the mind of a machinator, of one manipulating the scenes, orchestrating Wonwoo’s downfall. To be proven wrong, to find out he was motivated by _pity_ , is a fact that brings Wonwoo both relief and sadness. 

“I couldn’t imagine what you would have bet in retaliation. I’d thought jewellery. I’d never imagine—” the words falter on Minghao’s lips. “Your knight .”

 _My knight_ , Wonwoo thinks. His sunshine-haired knight who looked as beautiful against starry night skies as when his hands were wet with blood .

“And I lost,” Wonwoo says.

“You lost,” Minghao agrees.

He’s relived the shot every time he’s raised a bow since. In his mind, he can still see the target in sight, still see the way the sun rose over his head. By all accounts, it should have hit the bullseye. He launched his arrow, saw it curve mid-flight, had the angle perfect and it _should have hit_ but it didn’t. Sometimes arrows miss, after all. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Except watching that arrow was watching himself lose everything all over again in a single second.

“You’ve made a good life for yourself,” Minghao rubs his eyes, tries to bring himself to clarity. “I hope you don’t still regret the actions of that day.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Crown Prince Xu,” Wonwoo says, “But I always will.”

The remnants of wine in Minghao’s glass swishes from side to side. He’d greatly enjoyed this vintage, and when Zhengting had enquired his whereabouts a few hours earlier, Wonwoo’s tongue was loose enough to offer him to join. After that, it was hardly unfair to not allow Jeonghan inside as well. He’s aware of the two of them, slumped over in slumber in the corner of the drawing room, but finds himself unwilling to look around anymore, gazing at his distorted reflection in the base of Minghao’s glass.

“I took good care of him, you know?” Minghao’s grip on the stem tightens. “At first I— well, I could never give him special treatment or anything, of course, it would ostracize him even further. But I care deeply for him. Jun is a better man than a thousand others.”

Better than a million. Better than each star in this sky. But Wonwoo doesn’t say this. “Was he okay?”

It’s not a question that has an answer, not really. Minghao tries anyway. “Eventually, yes.” He downs the glass. “You know, Wonwoo—”

There’s a pause, and finally, Wonwoo raises his head. “Yes?”

“I apologize. For using your name,” he says, genuinely distressed at his impoliteness.

“It doesn’t matter to me, Minghao. We’re both Kings, present and future,” he says. “What were you going to say?’

Minghao exhales, slumping in the chair he’s collapsed upon. “I’ll never understand how you could ever let Jun go.”

Stabbing him would have hurt less. “Neither can I,” Wonwoo says and leaves it at that. He rises to his feet, walks to where Zhengting lies, his head slumped on Jeonghan’s shoulder. They seem almost peaceful like this, a trail of drool leaking from his mouth. If only they could be this sweet with each other when awake. With a gentle nudge, he rouses him from sleep.

“You need to escort your Crown Prince to his chambers. It’s late,” Wonwoo says gently.

Zhengting blinks for several moments, and the moment he realizes his proximity to Jeonghan, immediately stands up, dusts himself off. Jeonghan does not move a muscle, still fast asleep.

“Of course, Your Highness,” he says. He attempts to bow low, swaying slightly as he rises. “I do apologize for my behaviour, it was highly untoward, and in future—”

“Go sleep, Zhengting. I don’t care for your apology,” Wonwoo states, and it feels rather good to be honest. Zhengting nods again. Wipes away the crust in his eyes, and places his arm outstretched towards Minghao who graciously accepts it.

Wonwoo takes the liberty of collecting the wine bottles onto one table, making it seem like less like a night of absolute debauchery had taken place. Certainly that would be the preferred reality, what _should_ have happened with a gathering of young men in their twenties. But Wonwoo accepted about seven years ago he was never going to be able to relate to anyone, and it was best to just work on how best to pretend he does. He’s gotten very good, but some nights he slips up. And then has to remember that he is alone, that the crown on his head will always be heavy on his neck, and that he _chose_ to send away the only person who would ever help carry the weight.

🏹

“Why did I wake up in the drawing room?” Jeonghan asks. His footsteps are heavy, and he doesn’t hesitate before falling onto the bed, facedown. “Alone?”

“You weren’t alone. You had Zhengting,” Wonwoo murmurs, rubbing his eyes. He wills himself to sit upright. “You fell asleep next to him.”

He can’t discern Jeonghan’s expression from where he’s buried in the covers. He is, however, able to discern the tips of his ears flushing pink. “That doesn’t sound right.” His voice is muffled.

“I woke him up to escort Minghao back. And you seemed so peaceful there, I didn’t have the heart to wake you,” Wonwoo says. He sighs, runs his hand through Jeonghan’s hair, savours the sensation of the silky strands. “You made it up here alright though, didn’t you?”

“Hmph.”

Finally, Jeonghan extracts himself from the duvet and gazes at Wonwoo. “How was your conversation with Minghao, anyway? I thought you were just supposed to have tea with him.”

“We were, and then he started talking to me about Jun, and I decided I didn’t need to be sober for that.”

Jeonghan makes no point of hiding his grimace. “My Lord…”

He doesn’t have the energy for an argument. “What?”

There’s a pronounced pause. Jeonghan has finally been given the open invitation to ask those pressing questions and his mind is too fuzzy, and he hesitates to say what’s on his mind. “Are you okay? After the attack?” He lets his gaze trace down to Wonwoo’s neck, at the scar that remains.

Self-conscious, Wonwoo’s hands cover up the wound. It heals, but slowly. “I’m fine. It wasn’t as serious as it could have been. Jun was there to stop the attacker.”

Jeonghan’s smile doesn’t quite seem sincere. “I apologize that no one else was there. It won’t happen again. And, for what it’s worth, I am grateful to Jun that he saved your life.”

Stated plainly like that, it seems even more absurd. “He did, didn’t he?” Wonwoo says, staring into space, unable to come up with a reason as to why.

“It’ll be over soon. The engagement is in a few days, and then it’ll be fine.” Jeonghan promises him. And then he leans forward and kisses him.

Jeonghan's mouth is warm and wine-tainted and Wonwoo savours the heat. Feels himself getting pinned down on his bed, Jeonghan’s strong hands travelling up and down his chest. It’s always pleasurable being kissed by Jeonghan. Familiar too, the speed of his breath, the taste of his tongue, the feel of his blonde hair brushing against Wonwoo’s cheek as he nuzzles a path down his neck. He’s usually rougher than this, but it’s late, and he’s eager for something quick and easy.

This has become a habit more than anything else. Most nobility avoid Wonwoo like the stench of death that surrounds him is stronger than usual, and those that don’t, hardly tickle Wonwoo’s fancy either. He rarely attends the banquets most of his peers do, as most of his peers aren’t buckled down by the pressures of running a Kingdom and, consequently, there aren’t many conversation topics. But Jeonghan is always _here_ , a confidant, and it feels good to lie down and let himself be taken care of.

Alcohol has made Jeonghan sloppier. He pulls down Wonwoo’s collar, licking into the junction of his clavicle. He tamps down a moan that threatens to burst out. Jeonghan’s hand caresses the side of his cheek, and Wonwoo presses it to his lips. It’s then, that he notices the watch on Jeonghan’s wrist.

“Is this Joshua’s?” he says, lifting it up.

Jeonghan raises his head, blinks. “Oh? That? Yes.” He immediately resumes kissing the side of his throat, but Wonwoo squirms away, as if the sight burns him.

“What’s wrong?” Jeonghan asks. His mouth is red, his eyes wild. He looks ravishing.

“This is Joshua’s favourite watch,” Wonwoo says. “I asked him about it months ago. I remember he told me.”

“He let me borrow it. Is that a problem?” A defensive tone creeps into his voice.

For all Wonwoo’s faults as a leader, he’s put effort into establishing relationships with his inner circle, of developing a knowledgebase of their behaviours and habitats. And he’s observed Jeonghan and Joshua for many years, and he’s always had his _suspicions_ , but it’s something as innocuous as a watch that finally provides the answer to what Wonwoo always wondered.

“How long have you been in love with Joshua?” Wonwoo asks.

Jeonghan stares. He stares for quite a while, his mouth hanging ever so slightly open. Wonwoo can almost see the various excuses and explanations speeding through his mind.

“It was never forbidden,” he says, finally. “You never said we were exclusive. But my Lord, if you want us to be… exclusive, tell me, and I’ll end things.” Jeonghan cradles his arm to his chest, as if in concern Wonwoo is going to tear the watch away.

A fact that Wonwoo has accepted is that he could very easily fall in love with Jeonghan. Jeonghan is beautiful, and Jeonghan is brilliant, and he’s clearly proven his loyalty a thousand times over. He is one of his longest-lasting confidants. He’s brought order to his life and the Kingdom. And yet, even if Wonwoo could fall in love with Jeonghan, he must also accept that Jeonghan never really wanted him like that, not really. 

Certainly, they’ve had fun in their dalliances over the years, but that’s all it was. Relief against the mattress of his quarters, a method of tension diffusion. And Wonwoo has observed the way he looks at Joshua, the subtle shared glances, the cup of coffee brought to him late at night, the scarf tucked into the corner of a couch, the tender reminder to cut his hair.

And, truthfully, he doesn’t love Jeonghan. Not like that.

“Jeonghan, you’ve always been one of my finest,” Wonwoo says, takes his other hand. “All I could ever want of you is to serve me as my Advisor. Anything more was never taken for granted.”

Jeonghan’s gaze drops lower. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” he says. “It’s late. You should get going.”

A smile blooms on Jeonghan’s face, soft and sincere. He leans forward, kisses Wonwoo’s cheek delicately. “Thank you, Your Highness. Your kindness is never forgotten.” He hesitates. “I just wanted you to be happy.”

🏹

Wonwoo knows there is trouble when he sees Zhengting with his head in his hands. He’s always so overly confident, perpetually composed exempting when he’s had wine, and seeing him in a state of actual distress is more alarming than warning bells.

“Zhengting,” he says, and Zhengting’s hands instantly drop, his eyes wild.

“Your Highness,” he greets and bows.

“What’s wrong?”

Zhengting licks his lips, as if hoping words would spark themselves. “I’m not sure it is my place to say, Your Highness, perhaps you should consult your advisor.”

“And can I not consult you instead?” Wonwoo tilts his head to the side. “Certainly, if your reputation is representative of your abilities, you should be more than capable.” He memorizes the look on Zhengting’s face, deciding that when he recollects this to Jeonghan, he needs to be specific about the despair in his face. It’ll probably make him really happy.

Sensing that there is no escape from this, Zhengting extends himself to his full height. Coughs, brushes imaginary dust off his immaculate waistcoat and regards Wonwoo. “I’ve received reports of a disturbance in the tombs of the Cedarwood Grounds.”

“The tomb?” Wonwoo repeats in disbelief.

“Yes. The handmaiden Tzuyu visited the Grounds to supervise the furnishing but was barely there for a night before she was… compelled to leave.” Upon seeing the look of concern in Wonwoo’s face, Zhengting immediately follows up with: “She’s unharmed. Shaken up, but was not injured. She’s… rattled.”

Wonwoo stares. “Is that the physician’s diagnosis?”

Zhengting winces. “It’s… difficult to explain when we’re not certain ourselves. As far as we can tell, she seems certain that the tomb was...” He inhales. “Haunted.”

“Haunted,” Wonwoo repeats, as calmly as he can. “Did anyone have a look inside to see if there were any, I don’t know, _ghosts_?”

“The difficulty lies in the code of conduct regarding the tomb,” Zhengting says, like each word causes him pain, like he desperately wishes he wasn’t chosen to be the bearer of bad news. “No one but the royal family is permitted inside.”

Ah.

“I was on my way to tell Jeonghan, actually. I had just thought I’d try and think of a solution before speaking with him.”

“And did you?”

Zhengting’s smile is cautious. “I can’t say I did, Your Highness, but perhaps if you give me some more time.”

Wonwoo nods thoughtfully. “Would you call Jeonghan and your Prince to the armoury?”

“The armoury? I can’t say I’ve been there before, Your Highness.”

“Don’t worry, Jeonghan will show you the way. Do try and be quick as well,” Wonwoo replies, mentally reminding himself of what his archery instructors used to drill into him.

🏹

“This is incredible,” Minghao says, his eyes flashing with childlike wonder. “Have you ever tried using this?”

Gnarled wood makes up the ceremonial bow that Minghao currently looks at. The tip is curved into a sphere, the limbs thick and polished to a shine. The bow string is lined in gold. Wonwoo has his doubts whether it would even be able to fire—it’s decorative more than anything else.

“I haven’t. It’s not mine, anyway,” Wonwoo says, stares at the plaque. “It was a gift for my mother.”

“Oh,” is all Minghao can say in reply. 

Zhengting is similarly entranced. He stands so close to the glass, his porcelain face reflects itself, his eyes wide and interested. Jeonghan hovers close behind him, as if ready to pull him back at any moment. 

“This sword is older than King Zhang,” Zhengting murmurs, “That’s incredible. Surely, you must have done something incredible to be bestowed this, Your Highness?”

Wonwoo purses his lips. “A gift for my grandfather.”

“These are so impressive,” Zhengting clears his throat. “I can’t believe you haven’t shown more people this.”

He might own the castle, and the armoury and everything in it but that didn’t change the fact it was the names of his ancestors carved into the blades; not his. Wonwoo’s contribution to the armoury stocks is laughably small, in the corner, where no one can see it. The armoury was the ideal course of action, however Wonwoo did not wish to draw attention to an official meeting in the drawing room.

“Thank you for coming at such short notice, Crown Prince Xu,” he says. “I’m aware that you’re concerned about the tomb at the Cedarwood Grounds.”

Minghao steps away from the bow, gives Wonwoo his full attention. “It’s… problematic . You know, of course, I’d have no problems dispatching a few of my men to sort the matter out, but I am reminded, of course, that the Cedarwood Grounds is sacred land. That no entry into the tombs are permitted by anyone except the royal family and their knights.”

“Yes, I had been considering that myself as well,” Wonwoo says. “I think the simplest solution is if I just head over there and sort it out myself.”

There’s a noticeable pause.

“Your Highness,” Jeonghan begins in a strained tone of voice, “You’re not responsible for _crypt cleaning_ , you’re a King . No one’s expecting you to waste your valuable time running between the trees trying to find if a tomb has rats running around it.”

“I’ll not let any stranger into the tomb of my family. And I can’t ask someone like Seungcheol to do it for me,” Wonwoo replies. “He’s done enough.”

“There are _other_ knights, surely.”

But what Jeonghan doesn’t understand is that Wonwoo _wants_ to go. He craves the peace, he craves the quiet, he craves the orange trees. His castle has become a beehive of activity and his past few weeks have been filled with more events than his entire year. He yearns for a moment of privacy, to relax himself in the warmth of the sun filtered through the leaves. 

Zhengting opens his mouth, about to say something—but is interrupted by the sound of footsteps descending the heavy steps.

“Crown Prince Xu, the Lady Jieqiong is looking for—” Jun breaks off. He notices each individual person standing in the armoury and bows. “I do apologize for interrupting.” He turns on his heel but Minghao holds onto his arm.

“Stay,” Minghao says. “We’re discussing the matter of the disturbance within the tomb at Cedarwood Grounds. You trained there, didn’t you?”

Jun’s expression is carefully composed. “I did.”

Zhengting’s eyes flash from Minghao to Jun to Wonwoo, as if attempting to join the dots between this seemingly innocuous connection. 

“Have you ever been to the tomb?” Minghao continues.

“I was a pallbearer for the last funeral.” There’s an uncomfortable tension that builds.

“I’ve travelled the path alone many times,” Wonwoo says. He ventures over to the dimmest corner of the armoury, the part that seems like an afterthought. There’s only a few trinkets here: a set of vambraces given to him on his eighteenth birthday, a dagger that supposedly was maybe _possibly_ wielded by the kingslayer Yifan before his death at King Zhang’s hand. But it also has Wonwoo’s bow. The one made specifically for him, the one with his name etched in the wood and history weaved within the string. He reaches into his pocket for the key and unlocks the glass case. “I’ll go there myself.”

“I would offer to go with you,” Minghao begins.

“But that would be absurd,” Zhengting interjects, “Having royalty travel together with no accompaniment is almost certainly disaster.”

“Hold your tongue,” Jeonghan chastises next to him. 

This bickering just wastes more time.

Wonwoo sighs. “I’m more than capable, you know? It’s not as if it’s my first time. We’ll keep this among ourselves and I’ll be back within two days. Jeonghan and Zhengting, I’m putting you in charge of the castle and the engagement respectively.”

He slings the bow over his shoulder, nods when he passes Minghao and approaches the first step towards the light when he feels a gentle pull on his arm.

“I’ll accompany you,” Jun says, voice soft.

Once, Jun looked at him like he was shining with moondust. Wonwoo always found it silly, how could the moon compare to someone like Jun. Someone who was the sun with his sunshine-hair is far more fitting resemblance. He thinks he looks a little like that now, just as bright.

“You don’t have to,” Wonwoo replies evenly. “I’ll be fine by myself.”

But Jun turns away, looks at Minghao and Jeonghan. “I’ve trained at the grounds since I was a child. I don’t think anyone would protest if I returned.”

Minghao nods. “You can take leave. It’s up to King Jeon if he’ll have you.” 

It’s the phrasing of it that pierces him. If it was any other permutation of the word, if Minghao had said anything else, Wonwoo would have refused instantly, not wanting Jun to feel that he was forced by virtue of his past. But Minghao had said _if he’ll have you_ , and the answer to that is always, yes, Wonwoo would always have Jun if he could, and Wonwoo would always want Jun.

🏹

If Wonwoo doesn’t look too closely, he can pretend it’s like the old days. The horse Jun rides isn’t his Vivienne, and yes, they’re both older, not prone to such silly idle chatter but there are so much similarities. Riding next to Jun as they try to beat the setting sun, gazing at the line his body makes as he grips the reins, it’s so wonderfully familiar.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Wonwoo says, raising his voice, trying to be heard over the sound of beating hooves.

Jun slows his pace down. “Of course, Your Highness. It would be ridiculous to let you ride alone.”

“These woods aren’t as dangerous as they once were.”

“I’m not willing to take that chance.” In the past, Jun was… nicer. He was more inclined to go along with whatever Wonwoo said. This Jun of present is far more direct, far more firm, far more wise. Wonwoo likes it a lot. Most people just allow him to do what he wants without question. This isn’t good news for someone who has a reputation of making terrible decisions. He’d prefer to do what he wants _and_ be questioned.

“Will this be the first time you’ve been to the Grounds since…” Wonwoo trails off, suddenly berating himself for ruining the amicable atmosphere between them.

“Yes,” Jun says instantly. “Yes, it will be.”

He makes a resolution not to make any more reference of the past but then Jun hums under his breath, like he used to do when he’s trying to remember something that’s escaped him.

“Oh, I remember now. The last time. We came here together. It was for your seventeenth birthday,” Jun says, voice taking on a wistful tone. “It was just us. Your aunt welcomed us, made us lotus root soup. It was such an unusually warm day that we slept under the stars.”

Wonwoo’s face unconsciously grows into a smile. It had been a difficult day. It was his first birthday without his parents, and he could only escape from the confines of the castle when it was already sundown and the mourners had departed. He and Jun set out on a sprint to the Cedarwood Grounds before it grew dark. Even with no clouds in the sky, Wonwoo felt he brought darkness with him, snapping at Jun for everything he couldn’t control. The feeling soothed the moment he arrived, when he saw the orange trees in the distance. The soup was warm and his aunt kept smiling, pinching his cheeks. It was the last time he saw her, actually. But, of course, he didn’t know this then.

He remembers the night. Remembers the way Jun’s hand felt against his own, remembers the way his voice started shaking when he said sometimes he didn’t think he deserved to be alive, not at the expense of the King and Queen, of his _parents_. And remembers that Jun took him into his arms, let him cry, loud and ugly, the way he never could when he was at the castle and was expected to maintain a perfect example of composed grief. 

In the week leading up to his birthday, he had thought maybe he could persuade Jun to hold him properly for once, to do more than just these chaste touches. The reality was different. Jun kissed him, just once, as goodnight. Letting him fall asleep in his arms, whispering promises in his ears that drifted into his unconscious.

 _He really loved me_ , Wonwoo thinks distantly, gazes at Jun next to him. He inclines his head, as if to encourage him to verbalize the thoughts rushing in his head. Wonwoo means to ask him if he remembers how warm it was, something innocuous, but his tongue stumbles.

“Did you miss it?” Wonwoo asks. He’s not talking about the orange trees.

“Every day,” Jun replies.

The ground gives way to the mosaic steps of the Grounds, and Jun dismounts in his eagerness. He walks on the tiles like they’re sacred, each step careful and slow. Wonwoo watches him carefully—doesn’t want to miss a moment. Jun’s face rises like the dawn, his eyes lighten up at the sight of the trees. 

“It’s so quiet,” Jun’s words struggle to make it past his throat.

“No one lives here anymore,” Wonwoo replies, tying the horses up. “After my aunt and uncle died, there were no caretakers for the estate. All knight training just takes place in the barracks in the castle now.”

Jun bends down, sweeps his hand across the grass peeking out of the tiles. “That’s sad. I couldn’t imagine growing up anywhere else but here.”

“Maybe one day, I’ll try and revive it,” Wonwoo says. “When I have time. When I have people who can, people who want to.”

Jun holds back what he’s going to say, taking a deep breath but immediately shutting his lips together. He sets his sight on the tomb. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been there.” Upon closer examination, there are no anomalies. He rests his hand on the door and finds it coated in a thick layer of dust. “But, who knows, perhaps Tzuyu is onto something. I think the best course of action is to come visit the tomb at nightfall and—”

“Why did you forgive me? ” Wonwoo forces himself to say, his voice dry. He wouldn’t be able to hold out another moment, felt his edges start to fray. 

“Who said I forgave you, my Lord?” Jun replies.

His teeth found that last bit of tenderness to sink into. “I…” he falters, “You’ve started talking to me again. You gave me an orange. You saved my life.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Jun says, his quiet tone a confession in itself. “I reacted on instinct alone, knew I had to protect my King.”

“And the rest?”

“Once,” Jun swallows. “I swore a vow to protect you until the day I die. I don’t think that changed. I don’t think it ever will.”

He’s tried to say sorry at every opportunity. Wonwoo finally gives up on that, faces the harsh reality that no mere words can be enough.

“I can’t ever apologize to you, not really.”

Wonwoo had six years taken from Jun’s life. Nothing could repay that. He could spend double that making up for it, but the damage has already been done, he _sees_ the damage.

Jun smiles to himself, and it’s so sad, it’s like something most deep has fractured. “It’s been so many years. You can’t still be haunted by this. Neither of us are the same people of that day. We have to accept and move on.”

“I can’t offer an apology,” Wonwoo says, “but will you allow me to tell you what I wanted to happen? What I thought would? Indulge in my childish fantasies for just a moment?”

Jun hesitates before he nods. He’s used to it, used to giving into Wonwoo’s whims.

Wonwoo closes his eyes and puts himself back six years ago. “When Minghao offers me his whole stable of warhorses, I reply that I bet something better, I bet the services of my finest knight, my personal guard.”

“I remember that,” Jun says, teeth gritted. “Verbatim.” 

“And then, when I notch my arrow, I stare at the target and when it releases, it pierces right through the center. I’m the undisputed victor. The whole Kingdom erupts into applause and for the first time, everyone watching acknowledges me as King.” His heart starts to clench but he presses on. “Later that night, I tell you that I always knew I would win, that you’d never have to worry, that you’re more important to me than a hundred war horses or the respect of the Kingdoms, but I needed to do that, it was my duty.”

“And then?” Jun prompts when Wonwoo trails off.

“You take me for the first time,” he answers, almost shamefully. “In my chambers, when the world isn’t watching , and your hair fans out like the sun’s rays. And that’s just the beginning.” He pauses here, because it hurts so much, because it was so close to reality and then it _wasn’t_ anymore.

“You planned out more than just that?”

It’s silly, really, that the first time Wonwoo tried to reach for the future, he severed it himself before he could even reach it. “I did.”

“Tell me it then,” Jun says, and it’s the first time in so long Wonwoo feels the full weight of Jun’s interest upon him, like nothing else matters except what he’s about to say.

“I spend the next few years building up the reputation of our Kingdom. In the next year, I’ve already arranged a tour among the nearby lands and you accompany me there; you accompany me everywhere. I introduce you not as my knight, but my confidant.”

Something glistens in Jun’s eyes. “And then?”

“There’s a day in the calendar that has been permanently blackened,” Wonwoo says, voice starting to shake. “The day the King and Queen left this world. Every year it comes around, and every year I think I’m prepared for it, and every year it feels like I can’t breathe. My mother liked to garden and she wanted to grow orange trees even when everyone told her they’d never survive at the castle. I want to be like that. I’d like something to grow out of those ashes.”

“I remember the day,” Jun whispers, because of course he would, the entire Kingdom does.

“Five years after that day, I’d ask you to marry me,” Wonwoo says quietly. “That’s how it went in my mind, that’s what I wanted. In another life, that’s what happens.”

“In another life, I say yes.” 

🏹

Sometimes a tomb is just a tomb. Sometimes you can search for meaning in still structures and it won’t be found, because it never existed in there to begin with. Wonwoo walked down the steps, saw the statues, saw the coffins, and thought perhaps there’d be something to come all of it, that maybe there was something reaching out from the veil but there isn’t. There’s just dust, there’s just rats, there’s just silence.

“I don’t see anything,” Junhui says, and it’s the first thing he’s said since stepping in. He stands in front of the coffin of the Queen, his head bowed. “I think Tzuyu just heard… _these_ ,” he points to a scurrying rat. “And was too scared to look around.”

Wonwoo makes a grunting noise in approval. He can’t deny the disappointment in his heart.

“I’ll set up some traps in the morning,” Junhui sighs, lets his hand rest against the peeling varnish of the wood. “Let’s go.”

Wonwoo had seen visions of Jun for years, had always wondered what the cause was. And, for a moment, it seemed like perhaps the tomb was haunted, that something was there, that his mind wasn’t fraying at the edges. It’s disheartening to find out that’s not the case.

When the sun goes down, the Grounds are a different place. The woods are always alive with sounds, owls hooting in the distance. Everything bathes itself in darkness, and with no one to light and oil the candles, it can be impossible to see. Jun tries his best to set up lanterns, having had enough sense to bring some along. Wonwoo observes his movement pattern through each illumination, craving each flash of firelight .

“Sometimes when I’m here,” he says, walking down the steps. “When I come alone. I see things.”

Jun turns around for a moment, instincts more than anything else, but his face softens when they make eye contact. “Your Highness,” he says, turns around again. “I’m just setting up the lanterns.”

“I won’t disturb,” he says. “Carry on.”

He nods, moves to the next pole. Once, this was an amphitheatre of sorts, a small one, but ultimately a place for those with a message to speak. Wonwoo remembers seeing his uncle stand in the center, barking out commands for his knights in training. Now, of course, it’s empty and decaying. The steps are cracked, ivy growing through. There’s only one member in the audience for Wonwoo, and that seems somehow fitting, because it’s always been Jun who listens to him.

“What do you see?” Jun asks after a moment.

Wonwoo purses his lips. “I haven’t gone mad. I swear. I would know if I am, and trust that I’d tell you if I was.”

“I did not say that you were.”

“I just needed to clarify that.” It seems wrong to confess his visions of Jun to the man himself—but it also seems right. Who better would be able to tell him if it was mere shadows of his conscious or if Jun did find a way to reach out through the lands?

“Tell me about them,” Jun says, hangs another lantern.

“You. I see you,” Wonwoo breathes.

The lantern shakes. “What?”

“I see you,” he repeats. “When I’m here, out of the corner of my eye, I see visions and they’re always of you.” He speaks in a rush, the words so excited to get out. “Sometimes it’s your face, sometimes it’s your whole body. Usually it was the you I remember from back then, but I’ve seen the you of today as well.”

“Why are you telling me this, Your Highness?” Jun says.

“I want to know if… if you’ve ever…” he trails off.

“If I’ve ever seen you? No, no, Your Highness, I don’t see visions.” His words are decisive, but his tone is kind. “But you do?”

“Only here,” he says, desperately trying to cling onto whatever sanity Jun must think he has left. “Only when I’m at the Grounds, and you know, I’ve had generations of my family born and die here, and then there was the reports of the tomb and there are so many memories in this house and out here under the trees—”

“I met you for the first time here,” Jun interrupts him, a lantern in his hand. There’s a lantern in his hand. He nears closer. He appears like something inhuman , a creature of light solely defending the darkness. “You were so short. Do you remember that?”

“You gave me an orange,” Wonwoo says, blinking rapidly. “It was right under there.” He can see the exact tree now, would know it even in absolute darkness. “Years later, it was there, I kissed you for the first time.”

“You kept shaking, and you wanted to run away the second you took your hands off my face. I had to hold you back from launching yourself into a tree,” Jun suppresses a giggle.

It’s like a vault has been unlocked, and Wonwoo releases the memories of Jun he’s had to keep sealed up, so cherished and treasured but forced to be contained. 

“And we used to come here, all the time. Jun do you remember that time when there were newborn rabbits , and that other time when we saw a rainbow and then immediately were drenched in the rain, and the time—”

“I don’t,” Jun says. He’s close now, so close that Wonwoo can see his irises reflected in the golden light of the lantern. “I don’t remember any of those.”

“They happened, I swear they did,” Wonwoo assures him. “It was shortly after I appointed Jeonghan and, remember, he didn’t want me to go off without him, but I went out with you anyway, and we had to hide from my uncle, and then the storm clouds came out of nowhere… Jun, don’t you remember?”

He remembers his robes getting absolutely soaked, knowing that Jeonghan was going to be furious with him as they were supposed to be for ceremonies only. He had pulled Jun under a tree and they waited out the storm swapping stories of who they thought were dating among the nobility.

“I don’t,” Jun says, a curious expression crossing his face. “What about the rabbits?”

“It was… _before_ ,” and here Wonwoo blushes. “Such a long time ago. I was watching you train, you were still learning. And then you saw me, and you remembered me, and you came to talk to me, and I felt so special. And then, you said you saw something in the woods the other day, and you showed me all these baby rabbits." 

Jun tilts his head to the side. “I believe you when you say it happened, but I can’t say I remember this. I never knew you paid such close attention. You’re the same person that struggled to remember the names of your own family members.”

“That’s because they weren’t—” Wonwoo catches himself, no longer taking understanding for granted. “But they weren’t you. It always matters when it’s you, Jun.”

A sad smile crosses Jun’s face. “My King, my wonderful, wonderful King, I don’t think you’re mad. But I don’t think you’re sensing my soul through the veil either. I don’t think you’re seeing manifestations of my spirit.”

“Then what?”

“I think you miss me,” Jun says. “I think you miss me so much and so terribly, that you prefer to imagine I’m here than to acknowledge the reality that I’m not.”

Wonwoo gazes around, wildly, ready to point a finger to a phantom—but none appear. The Grounds are as silent as the two of them are. “No, but, it only happens _here_ , and the land is sacred here.”

“It happens here because… this is us,” Jun gestures. “This is where we grew up, this is where we met, this is where we kissed, this is where we fell in love.”

Wonwoo gazes at him. “You’re better than the apparitions. Those don’t speak.”

He reaches forward, takes Wonwoo’s hand in his own, presses it to his lips. “This one is real. This one is here.” He can feel the vibrations of Jun’s voice underneath his fingers, and Wonwoo inhales sharply.

“So, that’s it? I’m not mad?”

“No. I think you missed me.” Jun bends Wonwoo’s hand, interlinks their fingers together. “Just as I missed you.”

His own heart gives up on him, racing. Jun has always had too strong an impact on him.

“The one thing I always wanted to know, the one thing I thought, was that you didn’t care,” Jun says, quietly. Lets Wonwoo’s hand fall to the ground.

“I did. I do.”

“I said once I’d never leave your side,” Jun’s voice is sombre. “I said once that I’ll be your shield against the world, and I meant that. I still do.”

Wonwoo is used to getting what he wants. All he has to do is ask for it. But he doesn't have to say a word before Jun finally steps closer. Close enough that Wonwoo can see the freckles that have sprouted across his cheeks under the sun of his new Kingdom, a small new scar on the side of his jaw, matching the old familiar one on his right side. With a hand that does not tremble, he brushes Wonwoo’s cheek and leans in. And when he kisses him, it feels like six years melt away in a minute.

Jun is warm, soft, sweet and _familiar_. The second he kisses him, Wonwoo can’t fathom how long he’s survived without this, without the milk and honey taste of his lips. He pulls him closer by the fabric of his shirt, greedy wanting more and more of Jun, as much as he can take, he always’s like this when it’s with Jun, and Jun always lets him. His hand strokes at the back of Wonwoo’s neck, the other keeping the lantern between them.

“Jun,” Wonwoo whispers. “Drop the lantern and touch me.”

“But there’ll be no light,” he says, his voice delightfully hoarse, his lips pretty pink. “How will we get back—”

Wonwoo grabs the lantern and throws it on the ground himself. It bumps, and the flame extinguishes itself. He can’t see Jun anymore but now he can _feel_ him, can feel the smooth palms of his hands as they travel up and down Wonwoo’s chest. Between kisses, Jun makes soft moans that sound so much like his name. They part for a moment, inhaling in deep breaths. Wonwoo rests with his forehead against Jun’s, breathes the same air he does.

“You broke a lantern for no reason,” Jun says, unable to stop his laughter. “Wonwoo, how could you do that?” 

Jun can’t see his smile in this light, so Wonwoo takes his hand, presses it to his lips so he can feel the shape of it.

“Why are you smiling so much?”

“You called me my name,” Wonwoo says. “I haven’t heard you say that in so long, I—” 

“Wonwoo,” Jun repeats. “Come closer.” 

🏹

As a King, Wonwoo was given everything he could ever want and in excess. If he wanted a flower, he’d be given a whole garden. If he wanted a necklace, his wardrobe would be filled with gold treasures. And if he wanted a weapon, he’d have a bow and arrow handcrafted and inscribed with his name, delivered to the armoury at once. Such a life has made him complacent to luxury, to become accustomed to having his desires fulfilled.

Jun made him wait.

It was torturous. Wonwoo attempted to convince him a hundred times that he was ready, that he wanted him but Jun had always put up boundaries. When he finally took them down, Wonwoo never even got the opportunity. He put the boundary up himself that time. His dreams of the past few years had consisted of Jun fucking him and Jun killing him in equal measure. But those versions of Jun had been weaved together by his subconscious. They could never compare to this: to Jun on top of him, the the feel of his skin dipping under the grip of Wonwoo’s fingers.

“Relax,” Jun whispers, kissing down his neck. “I can hear your heart racing .” His thumb swipes across Wonwoo’s lips, feeling his pulse quicken.

“That’s because of you,” Wonwoo snaps back, but is immediately silenced as one of Jun’s hands makes its way up the skin of his abdomen. “Please don’t stop.” 

Wonwoo’s fingers dig into the sheets . This is not the first time they’ve shared this in the cottage Jun grew up in, but it is the first time Wonwoo’s groans can be heard across the entire Grounds. It was always secret, then, Wonwoo had to duck out of his aunt and uncle’s house at the back, and make his way to where the knights were housed. Jun’s door was always unlocked for him.

Jun is immeasurably talented with his fingers, a death as precise as those he deals with a sword is in his touch. He runs his hands over Wonwoo’s nipple, savours the look in his eye, his resulting mewl. “I didn’t know you’d like that.”

Wonwoo has no response besides begging Jun to do it again. Jun indulges him. His palm has travelled down the path of Wonwoo’s cock now and he slips off his riding pants with ease. He seems about to take him in hand, a hungry look in his eye, but Wonwoo shakes his head. “Come here.”

And Jun always obeys his orders. 

Wonwoo was born a King but he takes this moment to worship Jun. Kisses each and every inch of the exposed skin that he can, lavishes him in the affection and attention he’s always deserved. He would let Jun do whatever he wanted to do, he could become whatever Jun wants him to be. But as Jun moans his title and his name in equal frequencies into the crook of Wonwoo's neck, he realises that he doesn't want just anything. He just wants Wonwoo.

“Will you have me?” Wonwoo murmurs. The mattress is soft against his back as he sinks into it, captured in Jun’s gaze. Illumination by only the lowlights of the lanterns means that Jun’s eyes twinkle in an entirely different way now. No more star, he’s an entire universe. His skin is toned, filled with scars that Wonwoo doesn’t know the origin for. He wants to lay his palm over each one, ask Jun the story behind it. There’s one on the corner of his cheekbone, almost imperceptive now, but Wonwoo remembers its origin. He’d come back from the siege, and when Wonwoo had released him from the kiss, he saw his hands matted with blood, _wet_ crimson liquid, and he turned Jun to the side, saw how deep it was. He’d worried then, even as his knight insisted he was fine.

Wonwoo raises his hand, lets it run down the line of Jun’s cheek, halts at the scar. “Thank you for always protecting me. Even when you don’t need to.”

Jun is quiet, so quiet, and then he feels his hand interlock with his own. He presses his lips to the palm.

“It’s been six years since I’ve wanted to do this. My desire has not diminished since then,” Jun replies and takes all he can of Wonwoo in a kiss. His touch is warm from the oil he uses, and he’s so patient, so gentle when he enters the first finger. “Are you okay?”

Wonwoo’s beyond words, gripping the sheets so tightly he might tear them. “Yes. Jun, _please_.”

Jun nods. Even with his agreement, Jun takes his time to help Wonwoo loosen up, makes him wait before he slides another finger in. His hair is matted to his face, his lips swollen, his neck a constellation of blooming bruises. He looks debauched. Wonwoo feels far too proud. He’s wanted this for so long, he wouldn’t accept anything that wasn’t absolutely perfect, that wasn’t worthy of Jun’s time. The expression on Jun’s face is one of complete rapture. Even more so when he finally pushes inside, Wonwoo’s body tensing at the intrusion. And then—moments later it stops being strange and starts being _incredibly_ pleasurable. Wonwoo moans, unable to stop himself.

His body finds it so easy to give in to him, it’s always been so natural when it’s with Jun. It’s the rest of the world that’s always been _difficult_. There’s oil streaking his thighs, and when Jun notices, he wipes it off with the back of his hand. He’s so perceptive, always, the way a knight should be, the way only the finest knights are.

“How did you get so good at this?”

"You're not the first king I've fucked," Jun says, and he must be able to _feel_ Wonwoo get harder.

“Minghao,” he says, before he can stop himself. “I didn’t know.”

“Why would I tell you? When would I tell you?”

This shouldn’t be a shock to him, he shouldn’t feel so affected, but oh, the thought that Minghao has taken this from him as well, he’s had his knight in every way, even the ones Wonwoo could not. No wonder Jun is so skilled, he approached his duty with the same disciplined training as he does everything else. Jealousy starts to fade when Wonwoo realizes that it doesn’t matter, does it, because Jun is here now, on top of him, _inside_ of him. It’s his hands that are digging marks into Wonwoo’s sides; it’s his mouth that delivers sloppy kisses down his nick, interspersed with bites. He has Jun.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jun mutters, chest heaving. “None of it matters. All I ever wanted was you.” 

Later, he’ll hate himself for not memorizing every moment of this, of not remembering what Jun looked like rocking into him, or the shine across the glowing skin of his neck. But in his state, he can could do little more than lie back and feel his skin prickle with the sweat running down. Jun buries his face in Wonwoo’s chest, murmurs he’s going to come in a cracked voice. He doesn’t tell him to stop, but Jun pulls out, grunts under his breath. His release is hot across Wonwoo’s thigh , and Wonwoo drags him down immediately after, kisses him with far too much teeth.

It’s _his_ Jun, and that thought courses through him, a possessive streak that will never truly die. Jun sits up, examines Wonwoo critically . His eyes burn a path down his chest, and lower still.

“Let me relieve you,” he says.

“You don’t need to,” Wonwoo says quickly. This was more than he could have wanted, and he would take nothing extra. Greed is so _natural_ for him, not giving into it is an active decision.

“Oh, but I _want_ to,” Jun replies, and where his gaze traced a path, his lips now follow it. Kisses his way from his neck down all the way to his waist—and then, a spark in his eye, he swallows Wonwoo’s cock in one movement. Wonwoo almost cries at how good it feels, panting.

How far would Wonwoo go to never have to give this up?

Jun is methodical and practiced, his mouth wet and warm. Wonwoo lets his hand curl into his sunshine-hair, and he doesn’t mean to push into it, but can’t stop himself. Jun doesn’t mind, just sucks harder. Pressure builds up. Wonwoo tries to warn him when he felt his release approaching, but Jun ignores him. Swallowed it all, even licked his lips afterwards. Like he enjoyed it, like he savoured each and every drop. He stands up, seemingly satisfied at the boneless mess he’s left Wonwoo, but Wonwoo grabs him back.

“No,” he says, pulls him back on top of him, kisses him. He can taste his own cum in his mouth, cannot find it in himself to remotely care. He finds there’s little that matters more than Jun.

He wonders if he’d give up a Kingdom. 

🏹

Junhui runs through the etiquette of sharpening a sword with Wonwoo. His motions are natural, this is a common practise for him. His hand is on the blade, inspecting the silver edge, adjusting his position with each instructions. It’s so shiny, he can see Wonwoo’s reflection in it, and obviously notice he’s not paying at all attention to the lesson.

“Are you listening to me?” Junhui asks, eyebrow raised.

“Of course!” Wonwoo replies. “I just… repeat the last thing again, please?”

Junhui sighs, sheaths his sword. “My Prince, please. This is important. Do you think a blunt sword can do anything besides chop spring onion for soup?”

“I was listening! I was very interested, please continue.”

“We’ll try again another time. I can’t make this sword any sharper without inflicting cuts on me every time I take it out.” He gestures forward. “Just enjoy the fire before it dies.”

“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo says, shrinks a little. He had to excuse himself from dinner with his father to be here with Junhui and now he’s just being an embarrassment. It was a bad idea to hitch along to the Grounds but oh, he missed Junhui. He never gets to see him otherwise. “I didn’t mean to get distracted.”

Junhui looks at him curiously. “I don’t mind. Truly, forget about it.”

Wonwoo doesn’t reply, stares into the fire. He feels a hand on his knee, and looks up into Junhui’s kind eyes.

“I always keep a sharp sword. I’ll always make sure yours are sharp too. But don’t worry. You’re only leaving tomorrow night for the castle, right? I’ll teach you in the morning then.”

He feels something warm in his chest. “Thank you Jun. That would be perfect.” He wishes he was staying longer. “My father has to meet with the council, tell them how his trip went.”

“The King and Queen went to the East, right? How was it?”

He’s given an opportunity to redeem himself and he can’t. “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to them about it. I’m not very good at geography.” He has a memory of his tutor staring at him, bug-eyed, attempting to discern why Wonwoo can’t navigate himself out of anything besides the castle he grew up in. “Do you have family there?”

Junhui wrinkles his nose in confusion. “No, not at all. I’m just fascinated by it, I suppose. I’ve heard there’s deserts there, strips of sand which last as far as the eye can see. Isn’t that incredible? I have a fascination with a lot of places. I’d love to travel the world someday.”

“Really?”

He nods. “So many times, I’ll speak to someone and they’ll tell me the tales of where they’ve been. There’s so much of my life to live — it would be a shame to spend it all in one place, when there’s so many more incredible ones to walk through.” His voice takes on a dreamy tone. “I’ve always wanted to wake up to a different sky. It’s something I think about a lot.”

Wonwoo resolves that when he’s King, he’ll go to a different Kingdom each week, travel across the world, take Junhui with him, till they’ve travelled across the entire world. 

🏹 

Jieqiong is as radiant as a flower. Her dress is a magnificent, vivid blue, painstakingly made of lace and silk, drapes in a way perfectly suited to her figure. There’s several pins in her loose-hanging hair and a rose behind her ear. When she sees the door open, she can barely turn around under the weight of the necklaces around her neck.

“Zhengting? Is that you?” she says. “Have you seen Tzuyu, I need her—”

“It’s me,” Wonwoo answers.

She pauses. Picking up the train of her dress, she turns around. “Cousin, I can’t say I expected you. You know, the proceedings only start in a few hours, you can’t be looking at undressed women right now! It’s shameful!”

“I needed to talk to you,” Wonwoo says. “And you’re _mostly_ dressed.”

Jieqiong makes a displeased noise. “ _No, I’m not_. I’m missing my headpiece and my gloves. You’ve ruined the surprise for yourself.”

He’s not had much experience around women that weren’t his mother, really. But Wonwoo feels he knows about them, and he knows enough about humans in general, to know that she deserves to know how beautiful she looks. “You are incredible. That dress is absolutely perfect. You’ll be the most envied woman in the entire land today.”

The smile that blossoms across her face somehow, impossibly, makes her look even brighter. “Oh, Wonwoo, that’s so sweet.” Her eyes curve upwards. “I wanted to look good enough for Minghao, you know, I always want to be the best I can for him.”

“You’ll always be for him,” Wonwoo says.

She’s so different from the girl in pigtails he saw sulking in the corner of the Grounds as a child. The one who didn’t fit in. Wonwoo rarely thought of her in the past years, now he thinks he won’t forget this, the look on her face as she wears her engagement dress. She looks happy now.

“Still, flattery only gets you so far, King,” she says, smoothing down the line of her side. “What brings you to me?”

“I need to ask you an impossible favour.”

“Oh,” she says, smile sinking. “Let me guess, this is because you’re letting me hold my engagement here? You’ve come to collect? Now of all times?” She doesn’t sound surprised, but her disappointment is evident.

“No,” Wonwoo states. “Your engagement will proceed regardless of what happens here. What I’m asking… what I’m offering has nothing to do with today’s events.” He’s grateful for the privacy of her room.

Jieqiong crosses her arms. “I’m listening, cousin.”

“Jun,” Wonwoo says.

“I knew you’d ask about him,” she says, and a thousand emotions cross her face before she settles on exhaustion. “Haven’t you done enough, cousin? Must you disrupt his life _again_?”

Wonwoo ignores her. “I will lift the borders off of the Grounds. Your Kingdom, the one you’re building with Minghao, will have every right to go there. You’re right: you grew up there, it’s part of you just as much as it is part of me.”

Jieqiong’s eyes widen and she steps off the pedestal. She rushes towards Wonwoo, dress trailing behind her, and she grips him by his blazer. “Do not make foolish jokes with me, Wonwoo.”

“I’m not,” he says. “The Cedarwood Grounds was always called a birthplace of kings. That doesn’t change. I’m just letting you come in as well. It can be the birthplace of your kings as well.”

Her gaze fills with tears. “Wonwoo, you can’t do this to me. You can’t make me choose between my home and…” she trails off. “Wonwoo, you can’t break him again. I won’t be able to live with myself if I send him back here and you betray his trust. I’ll be responsible then, and I don’t know if I could do that to him.”

She has every right to be suspicious of him, and it’s because she does, that it hurts even more.

“I want you to set him free. Release him of any bindings to your Court. I’ve already released him of mine.”

“And what? You want him exiled? If he can’t live by you, then he shouldn’t be anywhere? That’s somehow worse than I considered,” Jieqiong says, stepping back, disgusted.

“No,” Wonwoo says, pulls her back. “I want him free. Let him go around the world. Let him travel and see the mountain peaks of the West and the deserts of the East, let him walk to the edge of the world and walk all the way back. And maybe he’ll return, and maybe he won’t, but let him have the freedom to make that decision.”

Jieqiong’s exhale is heavy. She unclasps one of her necklaces, throws it to the side, and stretches her arms out. She paces around him, periodically looking at Wonwoo with distrust.

“It’s not as simple as you think, Wonwoo. Everyone knows his history, if Minghao were to just release him, it would reflect badly on him and it would reflect badly upon you as well. I must ask if you’ve considered this properly,” Jieqiong says, and she reminds him of Jeonghan like this, this sincere concern.

“I have. And you’re the only person I can ask. I could never come to Minghao with this, but you. I know _you’d_ understand,” his voice cracks. “Jieqiong. Kyulkyung. Please. I have been haunted for the past six years dwelling on how to make amends for what I’ve done, and I think this is the only way I can begin to apologize to him.”

“Minghao will not forgive me easily if I make Jun leave,” she says. Inhales shakily. Her fingers fiddle with the beading of her dress. “And what then? What if he decides that he doesn’t want freedom, or that after a week running in the woods, he comes back to us, comes back to Minghao? What then?”

“Then I can sleep knowing he’s somewhere where he wants to be, where he belongs,” Wonwoo replies. 

“You’re just willing to acknowledge the very likely possibility that you might lose on this deal in every way?” Jieqiong clarifies.

But it’s not a deal. Wonwoo has always found it so difficult to blend the burdens of command as a King with his own personal relationships with the people around him. The only friends he’s made have been people who serve him. His childhood was never normal and then it was abruptly aborted. It’s taken him so long to learn what others have always known, but at least he’s come to the realization now. It’s Jun’s life, and it will always be worth everything.

“I would have loved him everyday of my life, even if I never saw him again. That is still true.”

Jieqiong stares at her hands. Rings encircle each and every one of her fingers. “He told me once, so many years ago, when he still called himself Junhui, that he dreamt of travelling, of seeing the world. He painted this picture for me, of where he’d go, the path he’d take. I thought he abandoned that dream along with his name.”

Wonwoo lays his hands out. Remembers what Jeonghan told him years ago, about the importance of summarizing yourself, ensuring your envoi is remembered even if you are not. “You can have the Grounds but let Jun go. Will you accept?”

One of the rings on Jieqiong’s left hand is silver. Diamond twinkles where it’s nestled in the center. Delicate as she is, sparkly as she is. It’s this hand she uses to interlink with Wonwoo’s. Her grip is firm, her gaze is sharp. “I’ve always wanted to believe the best in you, both as my king and my cousin, even if in reality you are neither.” 

🏹

In the pages of time, there is a teenage king who stops believing in love after he lets it slip through his fingers. His advisor politely points out pretty, single girls at royal affairs and, when that doesn’t work, starts pointing out pretty single boys. He tells him he doesn’t have to get married, but it might be good to go out once in a while, after all, the king has become remarkably pale as of late, and does little by way of hobbies. When that fails, his own advisor takes him by the mouth, and that awakens something, at least, but it is never love.

Wonwoo is happy to realize that such cynicism has shed itself from him. Jieqiong is bathed in a sunset glow, but even that pales in comparison to the way Minghao looks at her. He feels what it’s like to witness actual love, not meaningless lust, not misplaced devotion, not piety to a monarch, but a love that he’s always craved but could not grasp.

The first thing he said when he saw her was: “You look beautiful”. He didn’t even want to blink and miss a second of her. Wonwoo hopes he gets an invitation to their wedding. He didn’t care at first, but now he thinks there’s nothing more he’d like to do than see in person.

Jieqiong giggles when Minghao kisses her. Wonwoo has the sensibilities to look aside, suddenly shy. He doesn’t mean to look at Jun, but his eyes find him regardless. He looks beautiful—but he always does. His hair is carefully combed, and he wears a formal uniform in white with red trimmings. He smiles when their gazes are exchanged, an honest one, big and bright. He thinks about going over to talk to him, but waits, knows that this is certainly a busy day for him as well, surrounded by his fellow knights. It would be a shame to interrupt him. At least Wonwoo knows where he is.

When the sun dips behind the mountain, the lanterns come out. One is conspicuously absent. Wonwoo navigates past the guests, all wine-drunk and loose, eager for a dance or an embrace with a King, or Prince, or the nearest remotely human figure. It’s been so long since his Kingdom has had a celebration of any kind, and the cheer is palpable in the air. Perhaps his subjects needed something of happiness in the air. The Cedarwood Grounds are far nicer when they are occupied by people, after all. It looks almost like it used to, filled with tens and tens of happy faces, all enjoying the last moments of twilight.

He almost walks straight past Jeonghan, if not for his surprise at the man comfortably perched in his lap, currently licking up and down his neck. Zhengting’s nails are digging into his shoulder blades, more like claws. Joshua, next to them, examines this display with interest, a possessive hand in Jeonghan’s hair, the other carefully curled into Zhengting’s thigh. They look extremely busy. Wonwoo exchanges a look with Joshua, and then decides to continue walking on, unsure if he’s willing to participate in this version of reality just yet. 

He finds Jun exactly where he thought he’d be: under the orange trees. But he wasn’t looking for him, not really. He just wanted one of the fruits. They’ve always had similar interests though, it’s not surprising. When Jun sees him approach, he reaches into the branches above, pulls one out, rolls the orange in his hand.

“For you, Your Highness,” he says.

He tucks the peel into the pocket of his blazer, and savours the burst of flavour the second the flesh of the fruit touches his tongue. “It’s the best in the world, isn’t it?” Wonwoo says.

“I wouldn’t be able to confirm that truthfully, but I can believe that certainly,” Jun replies. His gaze shifts, a frown appearing. “My Crown Prince has told me something.”

“What did Minghao say?” Wonwoo says, keeping his face composed.

“With the advent of his approaching wedding, he doesn’t have use for my services anymore as his knight,” Jun speaks in a detached tone. “He said I’ll always be welcome with his Court and with him, but I’m under no obligation to serve him anymore.”

He sends a thousand prayers and blessing to Jieqiong. He’ll buy her the most expensive necklace in the Kingdom if he has to, to accurately convey his gratitude. “That sounds wonderful, Jun.”

“It feels strange. I asked him if I did something wrong, perhaps, but no. He said he was moving on with his life and he thought I should as well.”

Wonwoo’s always struggled with that. Letting things go. It helps to have someone alongside him who pushes him forward.

“I don’t know what I should do,” he says, leans against one of the trees. “I’m fairly adept with a sword. Perhaps I could join a company of mercenaries.”

“I think you can aim a little higher than being a sword-for-hire,” Wonwoo rolls his eyes.

“Are you really one to talk to me about _aim_ ?” There’s a twinkle in Jun’s eyes and it is brighter than the stars. “If you have such glamorous ideas for my life, tell me then.”

Wonwoo doesn’t hesitate. “I think you should explore the world.”

If he didn’t want to, if he thought it was a bad idea, he’d decline outright. Instead, Jun purses his lips in consideration. “Oh. That’s certainly an option.”

“I think it would be wonderful. Do you have any idea where you’d travel first?”

The desert first, Wonwoo thinks Jun would like that. Maybe after that he should go see the warrior angel statues in the North. Maybe it would be like he’s looking in a mirror. Then, he should go to the East. He should go everywhere, he should see everything he’s only heard about.

Jun tilts his head to the side. “You’re not going to ask me to come back?”

Selfishness is as natural as breathing to Wonwoo. Since he was a child, the world revolved around him. It was not surprising he grew up believing this, that the only one whose desires matter are his own. He wants Jun, and here Jun is, giving him the grace of asking. They could pick up where they left off, six years ago, Jun can take him by the hand and to his bedroom and they can learn each other anew. They can continue.

But Wonwoo is not the child he used to be. He will never be able to pick up where he left off, because he is not that person anymore and neither is Jun. No, the only way forward is to start anew. Even if that means he might never see Jun again, that he might visit a distant land and not come home, it will be okay. Because he will have made that choice himself.

“All I ask is that you send me letters,” Wonwoo says, smiling as broadly as he can. He tries to hide that he already feels his heart hurt with the thought he won’t see Jun’s sunshine-hair around the castle anymore. It did not take long for his presence to become a part of Wonwoo’s life. “Tell me about your trips. I want to hear every detail.”

Jun falters, reaches for Wonwoo’s hand. “But don’t you want me back?”

This is everything Wonwoo could have wanted but he knows he has to refuse. He has known Jun long enough to know that this is one of his most unfamiliar expressions, one of fear. The world is strange and unknown, but Jun will thrive there; Wonwoo has no doubt on this. He lets his fingers interlink with Jun’s.

“You’ll have a place by my side till the day I die. But not right now. Now I think you have some places you’ve been wanting to go to, don’t you?” Wonwoo’s chest is so heavy. He wants Jun to decline again, insist that he doesn’t want to be parted from Wonwoo’s side. But he looks contemplative now, almost hopeful.

He wants to go.

“You think I’ll be okay?” Jun’s brows furrow.

“Of course you will,” Wonwoo says. “You’re my finest knight.”

When Jun kisses him, he tastes of orange. It’s so sweet, sweeter than usual, and Wonwoo pulls Jun against the nearest tree, savouring and sucking the flavour from his lips. One of his hands digs into the bark, stabilizing himself, the other runs a path up and down Wonwoo’s chest. It hurts, too, distantly. Knowing this is the last time he gets to do this for so long, perhaps forever. But he has the advantage of knowledge this time, and takes a moment to lock in his own lust and diminish the fire. To kiss Jun how he should be kissed, gently, reverently. Wonwoo wants to memorize the feel of his hands at the back of his neck, of his heavy breath, of his whispers of his name.

“I made a promise that I’d serve you till the day I die. You have to let me,” Jun whispers. “Please.”

He could do this for hours, kissing the orange juice from Jun’s mouth, imprinting his fingers onto his skin, but Wonwoo steps back, knowing he should leave. It’s difficult, immeasurably so, and he stares at Jun’s lips. Swollen and enticing, Wonwoo wants to taste them again. Jun’s eyes seem to dare him to. It’s hard to refuse. “I will.”

“Okay,” he whispers, and lets his forehead rest against Wonwoo’s. They share the same air, unwilling to part from the intimacy.

“I’ll be here if you come back.”

“ _When_ I come back.”

He doesn’t mean for his eyes to fill with tears but they do regardless. “I’ll miss you, Jun.”

“Call me Junhui.” 

🏹

The beauty of summer is highly individualistic. Nobles in his castle would say that the greatest thing about the season was the revealing wardrobes , certainly farmers would praise the crops that grow now, and of course, someone sentimental might associate the time with a loved one.

For Wonwoo, it’s none of these things. The beauty of summer lies in how long it takes the sun to set, which means he can lay out ten targets to practice on, and take his time in shooting through all of them. All under a sky of pink and orange. It helps as well, if he’s too loud, he’ll wake the baby and that’s almost as terrifying as waking Jieqiong herself. 

He’s set up his targets in the old amphitheatre today, not wanting to risk disturbing any of the family. They’re overjoyed, certainly, but incredibly tired, and Wonwoo has no desire of taking up any of their precious moments of rest. They’ll return back to their court soon, and the journey will be long. It’s best to sleep while they can. 

Wonwoo notches his first arrow and merely blinks when it strikes the center of the target. He nods, continues to the next, pleased with the fluid motion. Another bullseye. The wind starts to pick up, and this arrow slants a little to the side, but not to any detriment of the target. He’ll long for this when he returns to the castle, but at least he can come back anytime. It’s much nicer being here now that there’s usually somebody else here as well. If not one of his court, then one of Minghao’s. Makes it feel less like a graveyard. The Cedarwood Grounds were never meant to be one; they were supposed to commemoration of the lives of kings. Having a new ruler born here just months earlier is something Wonwoo thinks his family would be proud of.

Smile unconsciously growing, Wonwoo fires his next arrow. There’s learned precision to his aim. They once called him the best in the Kingdom. He thinks one day he might like to try on that title again, but not soon, not until he knows he can handle what that means. He fires the next arrow.

The sky is as orange as the fruits on the trees, and Wonwoo pauses to gaze up at its majesty. This truly might be the most beautiful place in the world. Shakes his head, reminds himself he’s trying to finish this set before the light disappears, and loads up his next arrow. He shoots through the next few, hitting the center each and every time.

He stands in front of the last target. Lines up his arrow. And pauses. It’s not quite anxiety, but it causes him to hesitate. He readjusts his stance. Inhales. Fires.

Perhaps it’s a gust of wind. Perhaps his aim was off. For whatever reason, the arrows shoots far past the target. Wonwoo follows the path, gazes down at where it lies on the ground. But another sunburnt hand picks it up and passes it to him, letting the touch linger.

Junhui smiles like the sun. “I think you missed, my King.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading 💕

**Author's Note:**

> [spoilers for ships](https://pastebin.com/97Pb7aQf)  
> gratitude is in order:  
> first and foremost to my darling aleesa who was there from the beginning of this plot when i said "so monarch/knight but with a twist, right?" and helped me formulate it into this Chunky Boi we have today. i cannot thank you enough for your enthusiasm and patience as you helped me work this out. this fic would not even have a name if not for senior demon hyb's machinations, and that was just the cherry on top of all that you assisted me with for this fic, thank you for your compassion! and of course, i must always thank almay, it was wonderful talking this story out with you literally next to you! lastly, i must thank my incredible beta steph, who is an absolute WIZARD, who beta'd this in record time, you're the best sexy genius when it came to this fic.
> 
> len, i hope you enjoyed.
> 
> kudos and comments very much appreciated!
> 
> you can find me on:  
> \- [twitter](https://twitter.com/minhyukwithagun/)  
> \- [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/minhyukwithagun/)  
> \- under your local drawbridge
> 
> thanks for reading 💕


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